Father Mateo knelt before the altar, the heavy scent of incense filling the small stone church. Candles flickered as he spoke the final blessings of Mass. But as he raised the chalice, the church doors burst open with a thunderous crash. A group of knights, clad in mud-splattered armor bearing the colors of a local noble, stormed in.
"By order of Lord Hastings, you are under arrest for inciting rebellion," barked the head knight. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. Mateo remained silent, his gaze unwavering as if daring them to step closer.
The knight took one step too many.
In an instant, Mateo drew a small pistol hidden beneath his robe. A single shot rang out, and the head knight's helmet exploded in a spray of metal and blood, the lifeless body crumpling to the ground. The churchgoers erupted, fury igniting in their hearts. For too long, they had been starved, taxed, and mistreated. This was the final spark.
The mob fell upon the remaining knights with makeshift weapons—scythes, pitchforks, and iron rods. The armored men were dragged down and butchered in a frenzy of righteous anger. The church floor was slick with blood by the time the last knight stopped moving. Mateo stood at the pulpit, his bloody pistol in hand, and called out to the gathered crowd.
"We will no longer kneel to those who exploit us. Today, we rise!"
The churchgoers cheered, their cries carrying through the village. Word spread like wildfire, and soon peasants from nearby villages joined the growing mob. They marched to the castle of Lord Hastings, tearing down gates and storming the walls with nothing but fury and sheer numbers. When the gates were breached, the nobles inside were given no quarter. By nightfall, the banners of Hastings lay in the mud, and the noble family was executed in the castle courtyard.
This was the beginning.
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The uprising Mateo ignited in the Riverlands spread faster than anyone had predicted, sweeping across Westeros like a storm. Smallfolk who had endured generations of abuse took up arms, united by anger and faith. Entire villages and towns rose in open rebellion. Nobles were dragged from their keeps, tried, and executed in public squares.
King's Landing—already teetering on the brink due to food shortages—fell within days. The starving population flooded the streets, overwhelming the gold cloaks and storming the Red Keep. Joffrey Baratheon, who had inherited the throne after the death of his father, King Robert, was despised by the people for his sadism. His mother, Cersei, fared no better. A rumor that she had once mockingly asked why the starving people didn't eat cake spread like wildfire. Whether true or not, it became a rallying cry.
The royal family barely escaped with their lives, fleeing to Storm's End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon. Behind them, King's Landing became a battleground of chaos, as factions fought to claim control. Guerilla fighters prowled the alleys, assassinating anyone who dared try to govern the ruined capital. The Crownlands became a no-man's-land, with no side able to claim victory.
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Meanwhile, other regions of Westeros fell into different patterns of revolution. In the North and Dorne, the movement took on a religious character. The nobles in these regions saw the winds of change and peacefully ceded their titles, gaining positions of power within the new church that emerged. Bran Stark became the Cardinal of the North, while Arianne Martell was named Cardinal of Dorne. The former nobles retained influence through the church, and lucrative trade agreements with Eden ensured their continued wealth.
The Vale remained an isolated fortress. Under the rule of the unstable Lysa Arryn and her sickly son, the gates of the Eyrie were shut tight. The mountain passes were heavily guarded, making the Vale nearly impenetrable. Neither the revolutionaries nor the loyalists could breach its walls.
In contrast, the Westerlands stood firm under the iron grip of Tywin Lannister. His forces ruthlessly suppressed any sign of rebellion, and his wealth ensured that his lands remained loyal. The western lords knew better than to challenge the man who ruled with fear and precision.
The Reach was divided. The Tyrells controlled half, maintaining a delicate balance against the revolutionary forces. But Margaery and Olenna Tyrell knew that their position was precarious. Half their lands were in open rebellion, and they were forced to fight on two fronts—against the revolutionaries and against the growing discontent within their own house.
Storm's End, under the control of Joffrey and his council, remained a bastion of loyalist power. The boy king ruled with cruelty, but his fear of the revolution kept his forces tightly bound. His council was split between those who urged caution and those who demanded brutal retaliation.
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The revolution was at a stalemate, with no clear victor in sight. For now, the North, Dorne, and parts of the Riverlands stood with the church and the revolutionary cause, while the Westerlands, Stormlands, and half of the Reach remained loyal to the old order. King's Landing, meanwhile, was a lawless battlefield.
What should have been a moment of triumph for the revolution was complicated by the chaos unfolding in Eden. The Edenite government—one of the revolution's strongest backers—was imploding, paralyzed by internal political infighting. Supply chains had collapsed, and Eden's ability to support the revolution dwindled by the day.
Without Eden's resources, the revolution was faltering. The nobles of Westeros, sensing an opportunity, began to push back. Skirmishes along the Riverlands and the Reach grew bloodier, with no side willing to concede.
Father Mateo knew that the revolution's success depended on Eden regaining its footing. If the empire could stabilize, they would send aid once more, tipping the balance in favor of the revolutionaries. Until then, the faithful in Westeros could only hold the line and pray.
The fate of the revolution hung in the balance, teetering between hope and despair. What had started as a simple act of defiance in a village church had grown into a conflict that would reshape the entire continent. But Mateo knew that revolutions, like faith, were delicate things. They required more than passion—they required endurance.
And endurance, Mateo thought grimly, was what they would need most in the days to come.