The basement reeked of cheap tallow and damp stone.
A single guttering candle threw long shadows across the rough mat where the Sparrow sat cross-legged, the worn copy of The Seven-Pointed Star open in his lap. The flame danced in the hollows of his eyes, making his gaunt face look like a living statue carved from old wood.
"Our brothers and sisters… another dozen gone," one of his lieutenants said quietly.
"Old Bal the Tumor went to that Hall of Order yesterday. Took a bowl of real porridge and sent his wife there to get her cough looked at."
"Widows on Steel Street had their leaky roofs fixed by Corleone's crews."
"The dockhands, the whores, the tanners… every damn one of them. You show up, you eat. You're sick, they treat you. No prayers, no tests."
Silence settled over the room like a shroud.
A few days ago they still had hundreds of fanatical protectors. Fishmonger's Square, Pickled Meat Alley, Mud Lane—every sermon drew close to a thousand souls.
Now…
"The flock will stray," the Sparrow said calmly. His fingertip traced the rough page of the holy book as though the bad news barely touched him. "Earthly temptations—food, medicine—are the devil's sweet bait. They feed the body and starve the soul."
"But… Sparrow," another voice broke in, shaky, "our bread is almost gone. The medicine stocks are running dry. The supplier vanished three days ago. Fewer people are coming to hear the gospel every morning."
"So you're starting to doubt." The Sparrow finally lifted his eyes—two deep wells of certainty. "Doubting our path? Doubting the mission the Seven have given us?"
"No! Of course not!" the men blurted, voices overlapping.
The Sparrow closed the book with slow finality. "Remember, brothers and sisters. We walk the narrow road—the road of thorns. Those who choose the wide road, the easy road, have already priced their souls: one bowl of porridge, a few herbs, a roof that doesn't leak."
He stood, the coarse robe brushing his bare ankles. "We choose to carry the sins of the world. That is our glory."
He looked around the circle, voice soft but iron underneath. "What about Flea Bottom? Are the tongues still spreading the truth?"
One of the men answered quickly. "Exactly as you ordered. The rumors are working beautifully."
"Vito Corleone is already being called a demon by half the district. Some say he performs sacrifices at midnight in the Hall of Order—mixing babies' blood into the medicine."
"Others claim he's a blood-witch from across the Narrow Sea—those gray eyes can steal a man's soul."
"And that Dothraki savage with him eats a living heart once a week or he goes mad."
"Excellent." The Sparrow gave a small nod, pupils tightening to pinpricks. "Repeat a lie a thousand times and fools will call it truth. Our only task now is to reclaim the holy temple before the truth is completely defiled."
He pulled a rolled sheet of parchment from inside his robe and spread it in the candlelight. A crude floor plan of a grand building.
"The time has come, brothers and sisters."
His voice stayed level, but the faintest tremor ran through it.
"We have reliable word that the current High Septon suffered a stroke. Tomorrow night the seven Most Devout and twelve senior septons will meet in closed session inside the Great Sept to choose his successor."
Gasps and sharp intakes of breath filled the room.
In one sense they were all registered members of the Faith, but they had never been allowed inside the Sept itself—mere wandering holy men. After the war began, this barefoot preacher who claimed to have walked every kingdom had united them into a real power.
If they could ride the High Septon's stroke and put the Sparrow on the crystal throne…
"Is the source solid?" an old septa asked, swallowing hard.
The Sparrow didn't answer directly. The knight who had supplied the information had a son violated by one of the senior septons. Justice denied, the man had broken. He now needed the Sparrow's "calming draught" just to sleep. The intelligence was ironclad.
"Tomorrow night, one hundred and twenty of our most faithful will wait in the shadows around the Sept. The guards on duty will number fewer than ten."
"One hundred twenty against ten. The advantage is ours."
He scanned every face, memorizing expressions. Anyone who showed even a flicker of hesitation would be dealt with later.
"We will step inside the Great Sept, brothers and sisters," he said, arms spreading as if he already stood on the high altar. "We will let those silk-robed bishops who feast on candied fruit and debate theology while the poor starve see what real faith looks like."
The next night the moon hung fat and silver above the seven-pointed star atop Baelor's Great Sept.
In the shadows along the square's edge, a dark tide of people surged forward—deep-colored cloaks, axes, cleavers, even a few stolen longswords. Every eye burned. Every step was eager.
"Just as you said, Sparrow!" a monk hissed, voice trembling with excitement. "Only eight guards, all half-asleep. The main doors aren't even barred!"
The Sparrow nodded once.
Too smooth. A whisper of unease brushed his spine, but he crushed it. This was destiny. The Seven had chosen him—the only man who truly understood suffering.
He could already see himself standing on the high altar, preaching to a hall packed with kneeling worshippers. The golden lion of Casterly Rock, the rose of Highgarden, the sun of Dorne—every noble house would bow before the will of the gods.
Midnight bells tolled in the distance.
"It's time."
One simple hand gesture. No words needed.
The crowd poured toward the Sept like a flood.
The doors were unlocked exactly as promised. Protectors shoved them open. Inside, candlelit corridors stretched empty. Footsteps echoed off stone.
The Sparrow walked in the middle, bare feet touching polished marble for the first time. It didn't feel cold. Every step carried him closer to his fate.
They crossed the nave. The Seven watched in silence from their niches. Moonlight bled through stained glass. The only sounds were breathing and boots.
The inner-chamber doors loomed ahead—massive oak carved with scenes from the Seven-Pointed Star. Warm candlelight leaked through the crack.
A monk glanced back. The Sparrow nodded.
The doors flew open.
The chamber was smaller than expected. A long ebony table dominated the center. Seven Most Devout sat around it. Twelve senior septons stood behind them.
Exactly as the report said.
Nineteen pairs of eyes turned toward the intruders.
The eldest Most Devout—white-haired, calm—did not flinch. "Entering the inner sanctum armed and uninvited. You understand this is a capital crime?"
The Sparrow stepped forward, robe whispering across marble. His protectors fanned out, weapons leveled.
"We know sin very well, Your Holiness," he said, sliding into the High Septon's own chair at the head of the table. "We sleep with it every night. Hunger is sin. Sickness is sin. Being born in this filthy world is sin."
The old bishop's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
"The Seven have shown us the way." The Sparrow sat straighter. Candlelight from below carved his gaunt face into something saintly. "This Faith is rotten to the bone. It doesn't need reform. It needs purification."
"And that purification begins tonight."
His protectors slammed weapons against the floor in rhythm—slow, heavy, like funeral drums.
A younger bishop pointed a trembling finger. "You… you want to be High Septon?"
"Not want," the Sparrow corrected, eyes fixed on the priceless seven-pointed star pendant at the old man's throat. "It is the will of the gods. They have spoken through the cries of the starving, the moans of the sick, the death of infants. The time has come for a man who truly understands sin and punishment to lead this Faith."
The chamber fell silent.
The old bishop looked at the crude weapons, then back at the Sparrow. Slowly he lifted the heavy pendant from around his neck and laid it on the ebony table.
"I have heard of you, Sparrow," he said. "You preach to the poor. You humiliate women in public rituals. You peddle so-called grace while you fool the desperate."
"You say every man is born in sin. Then tell me—are you not sin itself?"
Furious roars erupted from the protectors. Weapons rose.
"Enough!" the Sparrow called, silencing them with a raised hand.
He smiled at the old bishop. "You don't understand, Holiness. Those weren't sins. They were medicine. A surgeon uses a red-hot knife to cut away rot. The patient screams and curses, but the cut saves his life."
"The pain I give is to save their souls. Redemption demands blood and tears, public shame, bodily torment, total self-denial."
"Yes, we are born in sin—filth begins in the womb. But I have spent decades in mortification and washed that sin away."
He swept his gaze across the nineteen churchmen. "Now, in this chamber, by the authority of the Seven, you will elect me High Septon."
"You may refuse. But I will take that as the gods' final test—and you will have failed it."
Weapons rose another inch, ready to fall.
The Most Devout exchanged uneasy glances.
The Sparrow's eyes glittered with triumph.
Then a sharp whistle split the air.
Thwack.
A crossbow bolt slammed into the protector standing closest to the old bishop. The man stared down at the fletching quivering in his chest, mouth opening, and toppled.
Before anyone could react, more bolts rained down—dozens of them. Military-grade, perfectly aimed. Unarmored protectors dropped in heaps.
"Ambush!" someone screamed. Chaos erupted.
In the same heartbeat the twelve "senior septons" and the six other Most Devout ripped off their robes. Bright crimson plate armor gleamed beneath. Golden lions shone on every chest.
Lannister.
The Sparrow's mind went blank.
The "septons" drew swords from under the table and fell on his people with trained, economical brutality. Doors all around the chamber burst open. Dozens more gold-cloaked soldiers poured in.
Fake. All of it—fake.
The election, the bishops, the intelligence—everything.
Only the trap had been real.
The Sparrow lurched to his feet, world spinning. He grabbed the edge of the table to stay upright.
Around him the slaughter was almost over. One hundred twenty fanatics, facing fully armed Lannister knights and Gold Cloaks, lasted less than a minute. Fewer than twenty were still alive, driven to their knees in the corner, begging.
He stood alone in a lake of blood, looking like a fool.
"Why…" he whispered.
A calm voice answered from the doorway.
"Nothing is impossible."
The Sparrow looked up.
A man in a black robe walked in unhurried, stepping between corpses and bloodstains with the casual grace of someone strolling through his own garden. He toyed with a gold dragon between his fingers, careful not to let his boots touch the red puddles.
The Sparrow's lips trembled. No sound came out.
"You played with people's hearts, twisted doctrine, and thought you could climb into the game of power," the man said, stopping directly in front of him. "But you never even reached the foot of the mountain."
Corleone smiled, teeth flashing in the candlelight. "For a cobbler's son, Malos, you did well enough. But in this game there's only one thing left for you to do."
He leaned in until their faces were inches apart.
"Shine my shoes."