The High Sparrow knelt feebly on the ground.
Corleone was right; he was a shoemaker's son, and his father had hammered leather by Cobbler's Square for forty years.
Maros remembered the scent of that leather, and he remembered those shoes: the mud-caked straw sandals of peasants, the worn soft boots of merchants, and even the steel armored boots worn by knights.
But the most unforgettable was a pair of shoes belonging to a Septon from the Great Sept.
Those shoes were made of deep purple velvet, their uppers embroidered with an intricate pattern of the seven-pointed star in gold thread, and the edges adorned with tiny pearls.
As his father held those shoes, repairing them with the softest lambskin lining, Maros watched from the side, and for the first time, it was as if he saw the divine descend, making his head spin.
It wasn't because of the shoes themselves, but because of his father's demeanor.
That tough man, who usually showed no courtesy to drunken sailors or haggling prostitutes, was now as careful as if he were holding the Holy Child, even lightening his breath.
After the shoes were repaired, the Septon casually flicked a Silver Stag, which landed on the workbench with a clink.
Then he put on the shoes, stepped onto the floor covered in leather scraps and dust, and walked away without looking back. That Silver Stag rolled halfway through the grime and stopped beside a pile of offcuts.
His father silently picked up the Silver Stag and continued hammering the next shoe.
But as Maros watched the purple silhouette of the Septon disappear into the sunlight, a certain conviction seemed to rise in his heart.
That night, he told his father he was going to the Great Sept to be a servant.
His father only looked up at his patched and dirty shoe tips, said nothing, and let him go.
Life at the Sept was another kind of ordeal.
Maros swept floors, wiped candlesticks, and cleaned sacred vessels.
He was closer to those who wore purple robes and gold chains, yet they seemed even more unreachable.
He had once seen a drunken young Septon casually throw the remains of a roasted pigeon out the window—enough to buy Maros a week's worth of food.
What provoked him most were the feet of those Great Lords.
As he knelt to scrub the floors, countless pairs of shoes passed before his eyes—velvet, embroidered, jeweled... every pair of shoes declared that their world had nothing to do with him.
He began to hate shoes, to hate these ornate shells that divided people into ranks and classes.
Suddenly, one day, a mad thought grew in his heart: If we strip away this foul skin, strip away these ornate shells, are we equal before the gods?
So, before the statues of the Seven, Maros took off his only relatively intact burlap shoes and stood barefoot on the cold marble.
Then, he tore off the sleeves of his servant's robe, looked at the Father, and muttered the only passage of scripture he knew by heart: "Shoes blind the eyes, fine robes shroud the heart; only when bare feet touch the earth can one feel the pain of the gods, only when coarse cloth wraps the body can one approach divinity..."
He chanted for two days and one night. The Septons grew afraid and went to inform the High Septon, who also felt fear looking at him and dared not step forward to stop him, until Maros chanted until he fainted.
When he woke up, he was not driven away or punished; instead, he was recorded in the register and became a true "Septon."
And so, he understood.
It turned out that extreme "humility" could become the sharpest weapon, piercing through the hypocrisy wrapped in ornate robes.
They possessed silk, jewels, and power, but they dared not be as "pure" as he was!
Then he began to go even further.
He walked barefoot even in the dead of winter, wore only the coarsest hemp, reduced his diet to what was barely enough to sustain basic activity, and knelt for long hours in prayer until he collapsed from lack of sleep.
He no longer called himself Maros; when others asked, he only said: "A sinner, unworthy of a name."
One day, suddenly realizing that no matter how devout he was, he could never become a true High Septon, he left King's Landing wearing shoes forged for himself out of suffering, paranoia, and fanatical faith.
He would tread the paths that those in velvet shoes would never dare to set foot on, to touch the authority they dreamed of but could never truly grasp.
For decades, he traveled every inch of the Seven Kingdoms, learned to concoct potions in Oldtown, created hope with carefully orchestrated "miracles," and established authority with cruel "purification rituals."
He knew well that the despair of the common people needed an outlet, and the hypocrisy of the upper nobility was his shield.
He was no longer that little servant who envied a Septon's shoes; he had become the "High Sparrow" who could make High Septons lose sleep!
Finally, just yesterday, the High Sparrow thought he had finally broken free from his fate as a "shoemaker's son." Barefoot and surrounded by fanatical followers, he stepped onto the stairs leading to supreme power!
Until this moment, amidst this blood-stained ground, he was thoroughly exposed by this man with the black eyes.
It was as if he had merely turned his envy of shoes into an obsession with taking them off.
It turned out that all his life, he had never truly left that workshop filled with the scent of leather.
He would always be just a...
...shoemaker.
"I do not accept this."
Scenes from the past surfaced before his eyes, and the High Sparrow raised his head, no longer able to maintain his usual peace and compassion.
He gritted his teeth and questioned with a raspy throat: "That knight... that knight had clearly thrown himself completely into the embrace of the Seven. Why did you know my plan!"
"Oh, you mean Sir Carlay."
Corleone looked at the High Sparrow quietly, his face showing no emotion, even accurately naming the knight.
Then, he turned slightly and beckoned to someone cleaning up the battlefield: "Sir Carlay, someone here wants to see you!"
Soon, a tall and upright figure walked over, covered in fine knightly plate armor. He then took off his helmet, revealing a face about forty years old.
His gaze swept over the pathetic Maros without lingering for a second, and he knelt on one knee before Corleone: "Lord Corleone."
"You... you lied to me!"
Seeing the knight's face clearly, the High Sparrow immediately accused him in anger: "Back then you clearly... your son was defiled by a Septon, and you said you were willing to spend the rest of your life atoning, willing to dedicate your soul and your sword to the will of the Seven!"
"His son was indeed violated."
Corleone raised a hand, his tone still flat: "But the difference is, you gave him hallucinogens and ethereal 'divine grace'."
"And I... I gave him justice."
Saying this, he turned to Sir Carlay, his tone softening slightly: "That Septon, you've already personally thrown him into the Blackwater Rush, haven't you?"
"Yes!"
Sir Carlay pressed his right fist to his chest and bowed deeply: "Thank you for obtaining justice for me, Lord Corleone!"
Hearing this, Corleone smiled and waved his hand: "That's good. Go now, Ser, your mission for tonight isn't over yet."
Receiving the order, Sir Carlay stood up efficiently and departed without hesitation.
"Im... possible..."
This scene clearly shattered the High Sparrow's perception. He muttered to himself, his eyes beginning to lose focus, as if he could not understand everything that had just happened.
"The Faith is independent of royal power; this is the law since ancient times. Even Kings and Hands cannot command them. You... how could you..."
"Tsk tsk tsk... That is the difference between you and me, Maros."
Corleone took a step forward, leaned in close to the High Sparrow, and whispered: "You manipulate hearts, using fear, illusory hope, and the glorification of suffering to make people kneel and look up at the 'divine grace' you dispense."
"But I, I deal in favors, in business."
Saying this, he tilted his chin toward an old Septon not far away: "When his daughter was in obstructed labor, it was I who used a scalpel to cut open her belly and take out the child, ensuring both mother and child were safe."
"And the High Septon, his son had a strange disease, his body covered in oozing sores. All the Maesters said it was incurable, but I cured him. Now that child can run and jump again."
"And Brother Lall, Septa Winnie, Septon Stephen..."
"In other words, now the City Watch, the Lannisters, and even the entire Faith are all my friends. How can you fight me?"
At this point, he straightened up and looked coldly at the High Sparrow: "You see, I only provided a little insignificant help when they needed it."
"And people, especially decent people, always remember who reached out to pull them up at a critical moment."
"This is a favor, and favors and interests are chains stronger than any contract or vow."
At these words, the last bit of color drained from the High Sparrow's face.
He knelt on the ground, his body uncontrollably trembling slightly, as if something that had supported him for decades was collapsing.
"Blasphemy..."
"..."
His lips quivered as he murmured: "This is despicable blasphemy... using these filthy secular tricks to defile the holy halls of the Seven!"
"You vermin have burrowed into the heart of the gods!"
"Save it, Maros."
Seeing his refusal to accept reality, Corleone's face turned completely cold: "Put away your act; no matter how exquisite the performance, there are no more spectators."
"There were never any Seven in your heart. What you have been chasing from beginning to end is only... power!"
"No!"
The High Sparrow retorted sharply: "I was commissioned by the Seven to come and wash away the sins of the world!"
"Oh, really?"
Corleone pressed forward half a step and questioned: "If you weren't so hungry to grasp authority, how could you have lunged at the bait I cast without hesitation, biting so deep, so hard?"
His pitch-black eyes stared straight at the High Sparrow, as if seeing through every clumsy disguise beneath his compassionate exterior, exposing him without mercy.
"To be honest, Maros, you and I are essentially both exploiting people's desires. But the difference is, you give them illusions so they can become the ladder for your ascent."
"While I give them real things: health, safety, justice, or even just a job to put food in their mouths."
"You can promise blessings in the afterlife, but what I can give is today's bread and tomorrow's way to live!"
He leaned back slightly, scrutinizing the High Sparrow's completely bloodless face, his words piercing the heart: "Do you think you lost tonight?"
"No, from the moment you used your first bottle of hallucinogens to delude people, you and the word 'holy' had already parted ways!"
"You are no 'chosen of the gods' at all; you are just a shoemaker who accidentally discovered that hallucinogens are more effective than the seven-pointed star!"
"A shoemaker with... clumsy craftsmanship!"
After speaking, Corleone turned around, seemingly having lost interest in this conversation.
The High Sparrow remained kneeling there, his forehead pressed feebly against the ground, as if even his last bit of backbone had been stripped away.
He had lost.
Lost to swords, lost to schemes, and lost to... power.
"Oh, right."
Just as he was about to step out of the Sept, Corleone's voice rang out again.
He didn't turn back completely, only slightly tilting his head, the firelight casting deep shadows on the profile of his face.
"Thanks to you, all those restless fellows in Flea Bottom have been drawn out, saving me a lot of effort in cleaning them out one by one."
"As thanks, your 'trial' will continue for quite some time."
"Keep your expectations up, Maros."
"This has only just begun."