[Lore] She Who Came Before

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Great Sept of Baelor, King’s Landing

The scriptorium smelled of ink and dust and sun-warmed parchment. Rows of novices sat at low desks beneath a high, vaulted ceiling, each hunched in quiet concentration. Ysenda Lefford dipped her quill into the inkwell, held her breath, and began to copy the next verse.

“Wisdom is the lantern of the Crone: carried by the meek, followed by the lost.”

The letters flowed more easily now. Her strokes were lighter, her spacing more careful. The first few days, she had smudged nearly every line and torn her parchment once out of sheer nerves. Now, she was beginning to understand the rhythm of it—the calm within the work.

A novice beside her sighed dramatically and whispered a curse when her quill split. Ysenda didn’t look up. She kept her head down, her eyes on the words. Let the others struggle and groan. She was not here to impress them.

She was here to become worthy.

Later, in the herb garden, she worked beneath the midmorning sun with Septa Ilyne. They knelt in the earth between rows of marigold and yarrow, gathering blossoms into linen sacks. Septa Ilyne quizzed her as she worked.

“Chamomile?”

“For fevers. And restlessness.”

“Blessed thistle?”

“Purifies bad humors from the blood.”

The septa made no comment, but Ysenda saw her pause and add a sprig of yarrow to her basket with unusual care. Approval, subtle and silent.

At evening prayer, the novices gathered beneath the great dome of the Sept. The glass above was a prism of fire in the dying light, casting long red and golden rays across the floor. Ysenda sat with her hands folded, her mouth moving silently through the verses.

Afterward, instead of returning to the dormitory, she slipped down a quiet corridor that curved toward the side chapels. The west alcove was lit by a single candelabra and flanked by stone benches worn smooth by decades of silent prayer.

She sat for a moment in the hush.

There had been a time—just a few months ago—when she imagined sitting here with her. She’d pictured it so clearly: Gwinella in white, her hands folded, her voice low and warm, saying, “This is where I come when I want to hear the Crone clearly.”

But no one had said her name since Ysenda arrived. No one had led her to her. No one mentioned her at all.

And Ysenda, slowly, understood.

She didn’t cry. That would come later, perhaps. Or not at all. Instead, she bowed her head and whispered a short prayer—not for the Crone, nor the Mother, but for one who had once served them both.

Then she rose and walked back to the novice’s hall, her step steady, her shoulders light.

She had come here hoping to be taught.

She hadn’t expected to feel left behind.

But the lessons continued. The days unfolded. Her hands grew steadier, her voice clearer. And the Faith—ancient, patient, unshaken—carried her forward.