The Sparrow sank to his knees in the blood-soaked chamber.
Corleone was right. He really was a cobbler's son. His father had spent forty years hammering leather in a stall beside Cobbler's Square.
Malos still remembered the smell of that leather. He remembered the shoes, too—mud-caked farmer's clogs, worn merchant's boots, even the steel-plated sabatons of knights.
But the pair he could never forget belonged to a bishop from the Great Sept.
Deep purple velvet, embroidered with intricate seven-pointed stars in gold thread, edged with tiny pearls.
When his father cradled those shoes and lined them with the softest lambskin, young Malos watched and felt something holy descend. Not because of the shoes themselves, but because of the look on his father's face.
The same hard man who cursed drunken sailors and haggled with whores now handled those slippers like they were the infant Jesus.
When the bishop flicked a single silver stag onto the workbench and walked out without a backward glance, the coin rolled through the dust and scraps before stopping beside a pile of leather trimmings.
His father picked it up in silence and went back to hammering the next shoe.
But Malos kept staring at the purple robe disappearing into the sunlight. Something took root in his chest that night.
That same evening he told his father he was going to the Sept to work as a servant.
His father only glanced at the patched, filthy shoes on his son's feet, said nothing, and let him go.
Life inside the Sept was its own kind of hell.
Malos swept floors, polished candlesticks, washed holy vessels.
He got closer to the men in purple robes and golden chains, yet they felt farther away than ever.
He watched a drunk young septon toss a half-eaten roast pigeon out a window—food that would have fed Malos for a week.
What cut deepest were the shoes.
Kneeling to scrub the marble, he saw them pass by: velvet, silk, embroidered, jeweled. Every pair screamed that their owners lived in a world he would never touch.
He began to hate shoes. Hate the glittering shells that divided people into high and low.
Then one day a mad thought bloomed: if we stripped away the fancy leather and the silk, if we stood barefoot before the gods—would we finally be equal?
So Malos stood in front of the Father's statue, kicked off his only decent pair of roughspun shoes, and planted his bare feet on the cold stone.
He tore the sleeves from his servant's robe and recited the only passage of scripture he knew by heart.
"Shoes blind the eyes, robes hide the heart. Only bare feet touching stone can feel the gods' pain. Only coarse cloth can draw near the divine…"
He chanted for two days and one night.
The septons grew afraid and fetched the bishop. The bishop took one look at the wild-eyed boy and didn't dare stop him.
When Malos finally collapsed, he wasn't thrown out. He wasn't punished.
Instead they recorded his name and made him an official monk.
That was when he understood.
Extreme humility could be the sharpest weapon of all.
The men in silk and jewels owned power, but they would never dare to be as pure as he was.
So he pushed harder.
Even in winter he walked barefoot. He wore only the roughest hemp. His meals shrank until they barely kept him moving. He knelt in prayer until he passed out.
He stopped using the name Malos. When people asked, he answered, "A sinner has no right to a name."
Years later he realized even perfect devotion would never make him a real bishop.
So he put on the only shoes he had ever truly crafted—shoes forged from suffering, obsession, and fanatical faith—and left King's Landing.
He walked every road the velvet-shod nobles would never dare tread. He learned to brew potions in Oldtown. He staged miracles that gave the desperate hope. He performed brutal "purifications" that built his authority.
He knew the smallfolk needed an outlet for their despair, and the nobles' hypocrisy was the perfect shield.
He was no longer the boy who envied a bishop's shoes.
He had become the Sparrow—the man who kept bishops awake at night.
Yesterday he believed he had finally escaped the fate of a cobbler's son.
Barefoot, surrounded by screaming faithful, he had climbed the steps toward absolute power.
Until tonight, when the man in black ripped the mask away in a room full of blood.
All those years he thought he was fighting the shoes.
Turns out he had never left the workshop that smelled of leather.
He had always been… just a cobbler.
"I don't accept this," the Sparrow rasped.
Memories flooded him. He lifted his head, the calm, pitying mask gone.
His voice cracked. "That knight… that knight had fully surrendered to the Seven! How could you have known my plan?!"
"Oh, you mean Ser Carley?" Corleone said, voice flat.
He turned and waved toward one of the men cleaning the battlefield. "Ser Carley, someone here wants to see you."
A tall figure in fine plate armor approached, removed his helmet, and revealed a weathered face in its forties.
He glanced once at the broken Malos, then dropped to one knee before Corleone.
"My lord."
"You lied to me!" the Sparrow snarled.
Ser Carley didn't even blink.
"You said your son was violated by a bishop! You swore you would spend the rest of your life atoning and give your sword and soul to the Seven!"
"Your son was violated," Corleone said calmly. "The difference is, you fed him hallucinogens and empty promises of divine grace."
"I gave him justice."
He turned to the knight. "That bishop—you threw him into the Blackwater yourself, correct?"
"Yes, my lord!" Ser Carley thumped a fist to his chest and bowed deeply. "Thank you for delivering justice."
Corleone smiled. "Good. You're dismissed for tonight. Your work isn't finished yet."
The knight rose and left without another word.
"No… impossible…" The Sparrow's eyes glazed over.
"The Faith stands apart from the crown. That is ancient law. Even the king and the Hand cannot command them. How could you—"
"Tsk. That's the difference between us, Malos." Corleone leaned in close. "You manipulate hearts with fear, false hope, and pretty lies about suffering. You make them kneel for your so-called blessings."
"I trade in favors. Real ones. Business."
He nodded toward the old Most Devout. "His daughter was dying in childbirth. I cut her open with a scalpel, delivered the child, and saved them both."
"The High Septon's son had a disease that covered him in pus-filled sores. Every maester said it was hopeless. I cured him. The boy runs and plays again."
"Brother Larl, Septa Wynnie, Bishop Stephen… every last one of them."
"In other words, the City Watch, the Lannisters, and now half the Faith itself are my friends. How exactly were you planning to beat me?"
He straightened up, voice cold. "I only did them a few small favors when they needed it most."
"And people—especially respectable people—never forget the hand that pulls them out of the fire."
"That's what a favor is. Stronger than any oath or contract."
Every drop of color drained from the Sparrow's face.
He trembled on his knees, something that had held him up for decades finally snapping.
"Blasphemy…" he whispered. "Vile, filthy blasphemy… You have defiled the holy house of the Seven with your worldly schemes!"
"You worms have burrowed into the heart of God!"
"Save it, Malos." Corleone's expression turned to ice. "The show's over. No audience left."
"You never believed in the Seven. All you ever wanted was power."
"No!" the Sparrow screamed. "I was sent by the Seven to wash the world clean of sin!"
"Really?" Corleone stepped closer. "If you weren't so desperate for power, why did you swallow my bait so eagerly? Why did you bite down so hard?"
His black eyes bored straight through the man. "We both use people's desires, Malos. The difference is you fed them illusions so they would become rungs on your ladder."
"I gave them something real—health, safety, justice, or at least a meal that fills the belly."
"You promised rewards in the next life. I delivered bread today and a future tomorrow."
Corleone tilted his head, studying the bloodless face. "You think you lost tonight?"
"No. You lost the moment you gave that first person hallucinogenic slop instead of real help. That's when you stopped having anything to do with the word holy."
"You were never chosen by the gods. You're just a cobbler who discovered that poison works better than scripture."
"A second-rate… cobbler."
Corleone turned away, already bored with the conversation.
The Sparrow stayed on his knees, forehead pressed to the bloody floor, spine finally broken.
He had lost to swords, to schemes, and to power.
"Oh, one more thing," Corleone called without looking back.
He paused at the threshold, firelight carving sharp shadows across his face.
"Thanks for flushing out every troublemaker in Flea Bottom. Saved me the hassle of hunting them down one by one."
He gave a small shrug.
"As a thank-you, your trial is going to last a very long time."
He started walking again.
"Keep waiting, Malos. Judgment has only just begun."