Don't Panic Chapter 24: Burn Them All!

Note: Here's an early chapter as a Christmas gift to my Patreon readers. Thanks for all your support this year. I've so enjoyed writing this story for you, and I look forward to seeing what chaos our wandering trio cause next year. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all :-)

Chapter Synopsis: … The game’s afoot. 

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Last Time: ... Ch20 Loose Ends: “Did you at least manage to question him?” Lord Stark asked “If we could find out who sent these spies and assassins, I would be happy to return the kindness.” 

“Unfortunately not, Lord Stark” Ser Cassel sounded apprehensive all of a sudden. “He came-to shortly after being dragged from the tavern and managed to shake off the guards holding him.” 

“He escaped?!” Lord Stark shouted in alarm. 

“Ah, not as such my lord. He clearly assumed that his cover was blown, so he shouted something nonsensical that sounded like ‘Tresy Jas’ and then fell on his own sword.” 

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Chapter 24: Burn Them All!

Septon Slint made his way through the shadowed corridors of the sept, carefully avoiding any watchful eyes that might be curious about his clandestine activities. The Septas could be especially nosy, but thankfully most were out in the town, serving the heathen citizens of this savage land.  

He had chosen one of the smaller food stores for this mission. It had been empty since early winter, and was unlikely to be used any time soon. This room was accessible from both the main sept and through the cloisters, allowing freer movement without being seen.  

An unused empty space was crucial for storing and disposing of the books he had gathered. It may seem benign, but it was delicate and dangerous work. Under his cloak, he carried another small collection of First Men books – mostly blasphemous tomes espousing the supremacy of their pagan ‘old gods’ and detailing ancient rituals for their shamans and Magi.  

Of equal concern were the tomes preserving the history and traditions of this barbaric land. They told of mythical times in which the North prospered on its own, and had no dependence on the Southern Kingdoms.  

None of these books mentioned the holy perfection of the only true gods, and thus, by Slint’s reckoning, they were all entirely blasphemous. This knowledge had to be eradicated. The people of the North needed to forget their past. Only then could they be accepted into the holy light of the Seven. 

He and Maester Cressen had worked for coming on five full years to complete this secret mission. Their shared goal being the suppression of the now dwindling knowledge of First Men histories. They had been carefully smuggling these tomes out of the Manderly archives and the homes of wealthier First Men families of the knightly or merchant classes.  

They’d even managed to steal from other vassal houses owing allegiance to the Manderlys. One or both of them would join the regular Manderly caravans travelling out to the smaller towns or loyal vassal houses. It was easy enough to claim they were needed for the usual administrative purposes of ruling the lands.  

They worked together in secret, driven by their devotion to the Faith and their belief that the northern people would be better off embracing the Seven and the Andal ways. They alone knew what was good for these people. 

In-fact, Septon Slint was quite proud to hold himself above even his own peers as a paragon of the Faith, and Maester Cressen equally stood above his peers in the brotherhood of Maesters, though few of their peers knew this. For only the most worthy would be approached by the secret brotherhood that truly held sway in these organisations.  

How Slint wished he could brag to those snotty Master Septons, or even that worthless Sublime Septon leading the community of the faith here in the realm of the Snowy Sept. But he could not. Those brothers were not initiates of the secret Order of the Trēsy-Jaes, as they were known in High Valyrian, or the Sons of Faith in the Andal tongue. Maester Cressen was similarly blessed to be a fully inducted member of their brother organisation, the Trēsy-Jor, or Sons of Knowledge. 

The Trēsy-Jaes and Trēsy-Jor had been in secret operation since the invasion of the Dragons. They had been, since that very day, dedicated as a group to the spiritual perfection of Westeros, the destruction of the Magi, and the infiltration of all civilised layers of rule within Westeros. To eventually return the nations to rightful rule under a proper Andal King. Only with their guiding light could the Kingdoms of Westeros prosper under the Seven that are One. 

Slint reflected that he was lucky to have met Maester Cressen so early in his mission. The secret nature of their societies precluded sharing the names of other members, so their common goals were initially unknown. Slint’s mission from the High Septon would have been vastly more complex without an insider within the House of Manderly.  

Of course, it is for this reason that their blessed leaders had instituted, many centuries ago, a proper identifying greeting. One that would seem benign in absence of the proper response. For added safety both call and response were in High Valyrian.  

Upon ending their first meeting those many years ago, Maester Cressen rightly recited the farewell he’d become so used to repeating, as was his obligation, “ilas geros”. To which the response of any Trēsy-Jor member in the know would be “ilas Nāpāstys.”  

Or in common, those would translate to “may your path lie true”, and “may the heretics fade”. Anyone not in the know, even those speaking High Valyrian, or the bastard version, Low Valyrian, would only hear an unusual but benign farewell, and think nothing more of it, not knowing the right response. 

Slint shook himself, knowing he needed to focus on his mission. He and Cressen had agreed that with the return of summer, now was the perfect time to burn and finally be done with the collected books of their five year mission.  

They couldn’t move such a large collection out of the city without raising suspicion, as neither had good reason to be moving goods or leaving the walls without entourage. And any chance of discovery risked death.  

The Manderly’s may be of the Faith, but they were a First Men house, and the Sublime Septon of this realm was of the First Men himself. It was a gross miscarriage when he was chosen over the proper Andal brother sent up from King’s Landing, but the clergy and brothers of a Sept may make their own selection, however poor that might be.  

Lighting such a fire in the city would usually garner quite the response from the City Watch, but as the winter recedes small bonfires were encouraged temporarily, both to clear out the dead underbrush in preparation for new growth and to take care of the trash that built up when winter made movement of even trash impossible. 

Today Slint could see at least three other pillars of smoke rising above the whitewashed town. No one would question the flames even from within the Sept walls. He smiled, and had quite the bounce to his step as he pulled out each book to place it atop his rough pile of tomes. 

This last stolen batch was actually quite the find, and would likely represent the only surviving copies of certain first men tomes. Maester Cressen had retrieved these on a visit to the keep of Lord Brookman, a minor vassal lord owing allegiance to the Manderlys in the further reaches of their lands. 

Slint perused the titles as he placed them in the pile, having read a few in an effort to know his enemy better. “A Treatise on Ancient First Men Languages and Runes” by Maester Wyler. It was a bit disappointing to note that Maesters of old saw fit to record such barbarian practices. It was easy to forget that the Maesters of Old Town were formed as an order before the rightful introduction of Andal culture to Westeros. Thankfully the order of Maesters saw the light and adjusted to living under the light of the Seven with little concern.  

This next one was also by Maester Wyler. “Magi of the First Men and their Methods”. Septon Slint scoffed, it was galling to know that a Maester wasted their time handwriting this work of fiction. 

The next was more of a history, declaring the strengths of First Men, “Hero’s and Battles of the Andal Wars, by Lord Mormont”. Definitely a record to be washed away from history for the betterment of all, along with “A Kingdom Well Ruled” which seemed to be a journal of one of the early Winter Kings, though his name was now lost to time. This one was particularly dangerous in its teachings of how the kingdom once stood on its own, successful and wealthy. 

Tugging a large book free of his belt he read, “The Seas of Westeros, Hints and Tales of Lost Lands”. A book compiled by ancient rulers of the western coast of the North, long since conquered by the Winter Kings and their Houses lost to time and the ravages of iron born raids.  

If the books he’d read were at all true, it seemed the western coast of the North was once far more prosperous than its current empty expanses would suggest. Though it was never truly wealthy, which might be why their ancient peoples sought to explore the dangerous seas that surrounded the North. While the book and its crude maps hinted at some fascinating findings, it couldn’t be allowed to be known that First Men might have had some success where Andal explorers had failed. There were also hints of more islands off the east coast, well outside of usual trade routes, but these too were likely to be mere myths and legends. If the Faith of the Seven knew of no such lands, they surely couldn’t exist. 

He also pulled out a small set of papers folded neatly in his inside pocket, these were tied carefully with string and labelled “Moat Cailin, Designs and Blueprints”. These could be dangerous in the hands of an ambitious Stark Lord.  

With the Dragons gone, there was no southern power left that could feasibly conquer Moat Cailin if it stood in its former glory. For the safety of the South, it was best that the castle continued to wallow in ruin. The castle had once been ruled by the Marsh Kings before their defeat by the Kings of Winter, and it was not lost on Slint that great magics were claimed to have been practiced there, all dark magic of course, and most likely a work of fiction anyway.  

In-fact, it had been suggested in one of these books that it was from the Moat that the mythical children of the forest smashed the Neck to halt the invasion of the First Men. “What utter rot that was” he mumbled to himself. He doubted anyone had seen a Child of the Forest in centuries, “they were likely just myth. It’s not like they were invisible!”  

He glanced around the room in a mock show to himself of investigating for an invisible creature, and chuckled to himself, such fanciful tales of heathens and old men.  

Finally he pulled a small, clearly waterlogged tome from a pouch on his belt, this one titled “Floating Your Holdfast, a runic guide for the ambitious Marsh King”, throwing it absently on top. 

He felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing that the false history and pagan beliefs these books contained would soon be reduced to ashes. 

Septon Slint slipped away from the storeroom, or soon to be ‘fire’ room, making one last trip to gather the remaining books hidden in various nooks and crannies throughout the Sept. As he passed through the public area of the great sept, he took the chance to surreptitiously drop a pouch of Gold Dragons for later pick-up by Maester Cressen.  

Funds from the Tresy-Jor were funnelled more easily through the Septs than the Keeps, and he’d just this morning received a refresh from the South, having had their funds dwindle during the winter. Their mission was at times a costly endeavour when guards and household staff had to be paid-off for their silence.  

Frankly, Slint was a bit tired of the extra effort it took to run such an operation in the heathen North. Bribes had to be larger due to the natural suspicion and dislike many had towards Southerners. He chuckled at the momentary thought that all their suspicions were actually right and warranted. There was truly a Southern plot actively working against them. 

Nonetheless, he was on the cusp of completing his five year mission, and was relieved to know it. He was looking forward to a re-assignment from the High Septon, and a likely promotion to Sublime Septon in a good Southern sept for his efforts.  

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While Sirius and Harry were up in the castle having lunch with Lord Manderly, Dobby had opted to explore the town so he could continue his self-appointed mission of secret repairs and cleaning.  

He wasn’t long wandering the streets of White Harbour, before he came across a beautiful domed building, with tall, elegant towers reaching to the sky around the large dome, all of it whitewashed and seeming to gleam in the sunlight. The place had an air of serenity about it. With the glint of lights reflecting off the last dusting of snow, the place looked almost ethereal. 

Definitely wanting to find something to fix in this wonderful place, Dobby practically bounced inside, quietly whistling to himself. All too happy in his venture to fix the world, or at least a few buildings anyway. No one would notice, he was sure of it, just like they never seemed to notice the squalor they lived in, though he admitted to himself that this one building did seem pretty clean and well cared for. 

Dobby marvelled at the stunning stained-glass windows as he entered, taking in the kaleidoscope of colours it cast across the tiled floor. The air was filled with the faint scent of incense, and the walls were adorned with intricate carvings. In large sconces stood seven giant statues, each depicting a different man or woman. 

In one corner, a statue of a Mother, her face carved with gentle features holding a small child, and seeming to watch over the pews with a benevolent gaze. In the other corner, a tall hooded figure stood with scythe in one hand, and interestingly enough, a small figure of a weirwood tree in the other hand. The plaque below read ‘The Stranger’. Dobby had to agree it was a little strange, definitely not very consistent with the theme of the rest of the statues, he thought, but it’s their art so he wasn’t going to comment. 

His eyes wandering the space, Dobby spotted a man beaming and practically bouncing as he strolled from a side room. The man had an astonishingly tall pointed hat. Dobby nodded to himself - anyone with a proper hat like that would have to be happy with themselves.  

He’d definitely need to look into that room to see if it had more hats, and maybe even socks. He watched the man drop one of those money pouches everyone carried behind the stone cloak of The Stranger, and shuffle off. Clearly making an offering Dobby concluded. 

Finally towards the back of the domed hall, Dobby observed a large blacksmith statue, and here Dobby finally found something to fix.  

He noted an old rusted great-sword sat atop the statue’s stone anvil. This would not do. Dobby had no spare swords, he couldn’t see the need for such silly tools, He also couldn’t just conjure a sword without it disappearing later, and the rust had caused loss of too much mass, but he did know of some gold sitting un-attended behind The Stranger’s cloak. He’d estimate it to be just enough metal for him to work with. 

If asked, Dobby would admit to being occasionally forgetful, and he was still getting used to being around muggles, but in this instance, he definitely remembered to hide himself when doing magic, clicking his fingers and promptly turning himself invisible.  

He then spelled the sword to release from its stone shackles and had it float behind him as he weaved between the worshipers to the other statue sconce and the pouch of gold he sought. Actually, quite conveniently, one of the monk-like men in a white cloak seemed to be in quite a rush to get through the crowd, ducking, weaving and pushing people out of the way as he went. This cleared a handy space for Dobby to pass while invisible, and he trotted after the man, following his strangely erratic path through the crowd. 

Now by the statue of the Stranger, Dobby found exactly what he needed in the abandoned pouch. Waving his hands and concentrating his magic to saturate the coins, he forced the gold to melt and float up to flow over the sword, simultaneously spelling away the rust and coating the blade in a thin layer of gold. 

Polishing the floating tool with a snap of his fingers Dobby inspected his work. He noted the magic fed into it had left a mild pulsing glow, but he was pretty sure no-one would notice. He finished with an ever-sharp charm, and headed back. 

Again weaving his way through the crowd, which seemed to be larger now than he remembered, Dobby floated the sword back to the stone anvil, and levitated it into position. Though, now recognising the value of a gold sword, he softened the stone, and sunk the tip of the sword into the anvil like it was butter leaving just over a third of the sword and hilt standing vertically out the top..  

Dobby observed his work with a smile. He wasn’t sure it was the most subtle fix, but these people weren’t too educated, they probably wouldn’t notice. 

At that point some careless man from the crowd bumped into him, reminding him of his invisibility. He did glance at the sword, wondering when he’d made it visible again, but brushed the thought aside. He had a possible hat dispensary to investigate in the side rooms. 

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Stepping into the side room, Dobby was disappointed to find nothing but a pile of old looking books. Not a hat in sight. Nonetheless, knowing Harry was collecting local books, and noticing they all appeared to be quite old, he popped across to the pile to start reading through the titles. 

These white robed fellows didn’t seem to care much for their books, judging by the haphazard nature of this pile. He even saw some kindling and a fire poker sat beside the pile, suggesting the books might even be used as kindling. “Such a tragedy” Dobby tutted to himself,. “It seems wasteful to warm your room with books like this.” Dobby sighed at the short sightedness of these medieval muggles..  

Dobby was inclined to drop all the books into his expanded pouch, but thought that someone might miss them. Books were quite rare and valuable in this new world after-all, and clearly getting rarer by the day if these people kept using them for kindling. 

He had, however, seen shelves just near the entrance with nearly a hundred versions of the same book, each with a seven pointed star drawn on the spine. These would do well as a replacement. It seemed far more sensible to burn spare duplicate books instead of ancient tomes. 

Re-casting his invisibility, Dobby popped out to those shelves, nabbed all the duplicate books, and popped back in, only to find his pointy hatted friend had returned. The man was kneeling by the kindling and lighting it with some flint. The man then rose to grab the first book. Here Dobby took the chance to case a mild confundus on the fellow, and for each book he reached for, Dobby handed him a copy of the star book while pocketing the original. 

This went on for a while. The man seemed to be overly excited to be building such a large fire. Actually, Dobby found himself getting excited just by being in the nice man’s presence. He seemed so unreasonably happy to be building such a large fire.  

Dobby would admit that it was now quite an impressive fire, though he wondered if the man knew that it wouldn’t burn for long if he neglected to add wood instead of books. He also worried for the poor man’s safety, if he hadn’t cast air freshening charms they’d surely have been driven from this chimneyless room by all the smoke now pouring our both the doors. 

After about fifty books, Dobby concluded the man wasn’t quite the sharpest tool in the shed, and maybe the big pointy hat was like a dunces hat from his old world. It probably let the rest of the villagers know that the excitable man needed extra help in his day to day activities.  

“Come to think of it, should he even be allowed to play with fire?” Dobby wondered, quietly mumbling to himself, as he made the switch on the last of nearly a hundred books and handed the star book over. The fire was truly immense now. 

Feeling chuffed that he’d been both helpful, and had managed to collect a bunch of unwanted books for Harry, Dobby left the cackling man to his unusually large fire after casting a quick charm to make sure it wouldn’t spread, and bounced out of the pretty but now smoke filled building on the hunt for more chances to gift the villagers with his own wonderful brand of secret help.  

It felt nice to quietly bring a touch of magic to the lives of those who lived in this quaint medieval town. 

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Septon Slint, pleased with his accomplishments, returned to the hidden storage room, ready to set his stack of heathen books ablaze. As he placed the last few tomes on the pile, he took a deep breath, savouring the moment. This would be the culmination of his and Maester Cessen’s five-year-long secret mission, sanctioned by the High Septon and the Grand Maester themselves. 

With a sense of anticipation, Slint struck a flint and ignited the kindling beside the pile, wanting to savour the feeling of burning each book, one by one. The fire quickly took hold, the flames dancing and crackling as he pulled book after book from the pile, not even looking as his hand found each book with ease, almost like it were handed to him one by one by the gods themselves. Each then carefully tossed to the fire.  

The flames hungrily consumed the blasphemous books. He almost felt dizzy and a bit light headed from the catharsis of finally completing his mission, if he didn’t know better, he’d think he were drunk his mind was so fuzzy from the excitement. 

As the fire roared, Slint stood back, laughing at his success, a rare and wicked smile on his face. He reached into his robes and pulled out a small flask of wine he’d reserved for this very occasion. 

He took a swig of the heady liquid, and revelled in the destruction he’d brought to the pagan beliefs and history of the North. With these books gone, the region would be forced to embrace the light of the Seven, knowing no other way but the way of the Andals. 

Slint was unfortunately brought from his heady success by a shout, turning to find he’d carelessly left the cloister door open, through which two older women and a passing Septa were watching him with looks of horror adorning their faces. Ah... That couldn’t be good. 

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Septa Morna groaned and rubbed her eyes in resignation at the scene she had stumbled upon while on her way to perform her afternoon prayers. That idiot Septon from the South was yet again showing his stupidity, having lit what seemed to be a bonfire ‘inside’ the storeroom behind the sept. She glanced to her side to the clearly signposted firepit just meters from her in the cloister courtyard, and back to the Septon, resisting the urge to facepalm at his stupidity.  

Morna sighed to herself, wishing someone else would have been unlucky enough to come across this idiocy first. This was almost as dumb as the habit the man had for poking books into small gaps and nooks all around the Sept. Or the pouches of gold he kept dropping. She’d never met a more useless Septon. 

The sight of the Septon laughing manically in front of this ‘indoor bonfire’ was less than settling for her nerves. Though frustration quickly turned to horror as she watched him throw a sacred copy of the Seven Pointed Star into the flame. This was a step too far, he’d be disbarred, nay he’d be tried and hung for this blasphemy! 

“Septon Slint!” she cried out, approaching the idiot man, only to be further horrified when close enough to make out the other books in the flames, all copies of their sacred text.  

Her voice now trembling with barely withheld anger and disbelief, “What have you done? This is sacrilege! Blasphemy!” she yelled, drawing a crowd from other passing clergy, some who were muttering about Deacon Jon and his being chased by a sentient sword. This muttering the Septa ignored, she only had patience for one idiot at a time. 

“Septon Slint! What in the name of the Seven are you doing? You’re burning our sacred texts!”, a younger initiate cried from the crowd, as they bayed for his attention with questions and accusations. 

The commotion soon attracted the attention of others within the sept, who rushed to the scene, their faces etched with shock and dismay. Slint’s eyes, which had previously been in a bit of a haze, seemed to clear, still clutching his wine. “The man’s drunk”, Morna declared, knowing exactly what caused such absent hazy eyes, 

Slint seemed to come back to earth a bit, and seemed struck with the realisation of the gravity of his action as he stared at the burning texts. The Septon, caught off guard and slightly inebriated, stammered, “I... I thought they were the old heretical books! I didn’t mean to... I swear!” 

Septa Morna was honestly a bit torn, the act itself was sacrilege, but not many of the people could read anyway, so the loss of the books wasn’t her biggest concern. No, she was now making a scene in the hope that Slint would be dragged off to a cell to sober up, and promptly shipped back south where he belonged. She was sick of these idiot Southron Septons acting all high and mighty. 

As she left the burlier Septons to deal with the idiot man and put out the fire, Septa Morna sighed, What a waste of funds. Books were costly, and replacing them would make a deep dent in their coffers. Any plans they’d had to build new septs in the lands they were trying to convert would have to be put on hold for quite a while. This scandal would haunt the sept and its clergy for some time to come, she just knew it. How could she convince her first men brethren to live in peace under the guidance of the Seven with idiots like this ruining all their good work. 

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Nella was a bit suspicious of the Sept here in White Harbour, she’d never visited a proper place of worship, preferring the godswoods and the weirwoods they held. She was, however, having such a wonderful, normal day following her lovely cousin around town as she was shown the sights, and she didn’t think there’d be any harm in seeing what goes on inside these foreign places of worship. Nella was sure this worship stuff would be a rather dull affair to be honest.  

Upon stepping into the Sept, Nella’s first sight was of another child of the forest clicking its fingers and simply vanishing. This wasn’t necessarily the level of normal she’d sought when she left Winterfell. 

Just as Nella was shaking her head and considering the benefits of finding somewhere else to be, she found herself rooted to the spot in a sense of morbid curiosity as a large decorative sword took flight to chase the poor deacon though the Sept. Seeming to follow his path no matter how much he ducked and weaved through the crowd, pushing people out the way, with panic clear in his eyes. She was sure Deacons were supposed to be paragons of peace and calm, but then again, being chased by a sentient sword would put anyone off their game. 

She then watched with the rest of the Septry as the Stranger, the very embodiment of death stopped the sword in its path, saving the deacon, and encased the floating sword in gold. If she were honest, watching Death encase a sword in gold was a little more ominous than Nella liked to get on any given Moonday.  

Then as though it were just out for a normal lunchtime stroll, the now ‘glowing’ gold sword leisurely returned itself to the stone anvil and promptly stabbed itself though four feet of solid stone as though it were butter. 

Nella wasn’t so sure about White Harbour anymore, she idly wondered if her kin in Lannisport had to put up with this sort of thing. 

Nonetheless, Nella was definitely going to be nicer to any swords she met from now on. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever made an effort to be nice to any swords. This could be seriously bad for her health. 

Nella and her cousin pushed through the crowd to the cloistered courtyard trying to get out of the chaos, and noting it was a little less frantic by the storerooms. If the heavy hyperventilating wand wide eyes were anything to go by, Nella assumed her cousin also felt like a little fresh air would do the world of good right about now. 

Of course, she should have known things were not meant to be. In what scenario was she supposed to expect such a sight. Nella and her cousin, being the only ones in the yard, found themselves watching transfixed through a wide open doorway as the child of the forest she had seen earlier, handed a Septon copies of the Seven-Pointed-Star one by one. Only for the Septon to rather fanatically toss each copy of the book onto a growing bonfire, with a manic smile and cackling laugh. 

If the gods were sending her a message, she wasn’t sure what it was, but she was pretty sure she needed a break from her break. 

Just as Nella shook herself of her shock, the multi-hatted creature, seemingly happy with its work, casually made its way towards another exit, apparently oblivious to Nella’s stare. 

As Nella was thoroughly caught up in watching the creature bounce out of the room, a shout from a passing Septa gave her a fright. Screams and shouts filled the air, and people began running towards the scene. Nella could barely make out the cries of “fire”, “blasphemy”, and “traitor” amidst the rising chaos. 

She glanced back at the small creature, only to find it had vanished, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing. 

Nella, nodded to herself as she made a determined decision. She would visit her kin in Lannisport, there she was sure to find reprieve from the strange events that seemed to surround her everywhere in the North.  

Lannisport was a bustling, vibrant city the last time she visited with her Lady, where everything seemed so normal and predictable. Surely, she thought, nothing out of the ordinary could happen there. 

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Harry and Sirius were seated in a cosy corner of the local tavern, enjoying their dinner after a successful day of negotiations with Lord Manderly. The warm glow of the fireplace cast flickering shadows on the walls as they discussed their plans for the future of the Peverell and Black Trading Company. The atmosphere was lively, filled with the chatter of patrons and the clinking of mugs. 

Dobby had been away on one of his self-appointed missions around White Harbour, and now, he eagerly approached the pair with a satisfied air about him. He recounted his recent acquisition of a surprisingly large collection of ancient First Men tomes, describing the haphazard pile, and how helpful he was in assisting the dunce hatted man in starting his fire with the excess star books instead.  

As Harry and Sirius listened, their expressions turned from curiosity to disbelief, and finally to a simmering anger. Unlike their oblivious and well-meaning friend, both Harry and Sirius understood the meaning behind the Septon’s actions.  

Clearly the Faith of the Seven had been systematically working to destroy the history and magic of the North. It was an infuriating discovery, and might explain the diminishing evidence of magic use here in the North.  

The effect was even more obvious when Harry compared his own observations of limited to no magic ability amongst the people, with the magic filled stories of old. It confirmed what they had already suspected in Winterfell. There really was a conspiracy against the North.  And an enemy that sought to undermine the very foundations of the magical world they held dear. 

Sirius clenched his fists, his usually light-hearted demeanour replaced by a steely determination. “We need to do something about this,” he growled, his eyes darkening with resolve. “We can’t allow them to erase the North’s heritage.” 

Harry nodded, more contemplative than angry, gestured for Sirius to stay seated. “This shouldn’t really be a surprise, we’ve already observed the increasingly rare use of magic the further we move south”, he paused to sip from his tankard and sighed, “it’s not too dissimilar to the persecution of witches and wizards by medieval religious groups in our own world.” 

He rapped his knuckles on the table, releasing a little of his frustration, “Anyone that threatens another group’s hold on power will naturally find themselves enemies, and magic users naturally wield great power” he concluded. 

Sirius nodded in return, simmering down a bit in a more reflective mood. “We were bound to find ourselves enemies eventually, we can at least be thankful we’ve kept under the radar, no-one’s noticed even an ounce of our magic to-date.”  

At that Dobby nodded in full agreement, knowing he was a consummate professional in keeping magic hidden from these poor medieval muggles.  

Sirius continued, his grey eyes briefly flashing with anger, “nevertheless, we must find a way to counter their actions, to protect and preserve the knowledge they are so desperately trying to destroy. We owe it to ourselves, and any other magicals we find in our travels.” 

“Merlin, Harry, you even owe it to your kin, the Starks. They clearly have a history of magic. You never know when one of their children might manifest a full magical core.” 

The pair exchanged grim looks. Just one more pressing activity to add to the to-do list as they travelled. This would be a silent war, fought against parties that didn’t even know of their existence, but it would by no means be easy.  

Who knows how deep the conspiracy goes, it could even cross organisational bounds, Harry was sure the Maesters had something to do with it based on the conspicuous lack of any magic records in the main Stark library. Lord Stark’s current Maester seemed more than fine. In-fact Harry was sure Maester Gerrick was uninvolved, he was a good man. But who knows what the prior Winterfell Maesters were like. 

For now though, they’d just have to keep an eye out for opportunities to intercept and counteract the activities of the Faith wherever possible.  

Harry, his mood now a little flatter than before, decided to retire back to their tent, to sort through the rich pickings of ancient tomes from Dobby’s haul. The small tome “Never Poke a Sleeping Direwolf, and Other Wise Advice Learned the Hard Way” looked like it might make for a good evening read to lighten his mood. 

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Chapter 25 Teaser: 

Harry sat staring at the ancient book in his hands with great anticipation. This is what he’d been waiting for. “A Treatise on Ancient First Men Languages and Runes” by Maester Wyler was undoubtedly going to be the key to translating and understanding first men runes to a degree he hadn’t managed so far.