Morning light slanted across the marble plaza in front of Baelor's Great Sept, picking out every groove in the white stone.
The air still carried the damp chill of night mixed with the faint salty rot drifting up from the Blackwater.
Gold Cloaks had cordoned off the square, spears held ready, faces blank as they kept the crowd in line.
Beyond the barriers, people packed in tight. Nobles in silk and velvet stood at the front under the shade of servants' parasols. Merchants and craftsmen came next, then the great mass of commoners. Plenty of Flea Bottom residents had shown up, along with fishermen from outside Mud Gate. Their dirty faces showed a messy mix of fear, excitement, confusion, and hate.
In the center of the plaza stood seven new granite pillars arranged in a seven-pointed star. The rough stone looked out of place against the smooth marble around them.
Tied to the foremost pillar was a man.
The Sparrow—Malos.
He'd been stripped of his signature ragged robe and dressed in coarse, undyed sackcloth that looked more like a shroud. His gray hair had been shaved clean off his scalp, and someone had painted a crooked seven-pointed star on his crown in red pigment that stood out like an open wound in the morning sun.
Thick leather ropes bound his wrists and ankles, holding him upright against the stone.
The Sparrow kept his head down, lips still moving in a faint whisper. Those close enough could just make out the words he'd once used to win his first followers:
"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..."
The same scripture that had made him a monk now sounded like the desperate muttering of a madman.
The crowd pointed and whispered.
"Look, that's the Sparrow..."
"I heard he was feeding people poison."
"My cousin's kid lost his foot after drinking that 'holy medicine' of his!"
"But he used to give us bread..."
"That was devil's bread! A lot of people who ate it started shitting blood and died within days!"
The muttering grew angrier toward the back. Up front among the nobles, a few chuckled and commented as if watching theater.
They'd never known the suffering of the smallfolk and never would.
Then the bells rang—seven heavy strikes that seemed to land straight in the chest.
The crowd fell silent.
The great rainbow-glass doors of the Sept swung open. The fat High Septon and seven Most Devout walked out in their formal crimson robes, seven-pointed stars gleaming at their throats, their feet still clad in the same fancy shoes.
They climbed onto a temporary wooden platform.
The High Septon gave the crowd a small nod, then drew a deep breath and announced loudly:
"In the name of the Seven!"
"Today we hold a holy trial!"
His gaze swept the plaza and settled on the man bound to the pillar.
"Malos, cobbler's son, who called himself the Sparrow—stands accused of seven sins.
"First: Blasphemy against the Faith and falsifying miracles.
"Second: Poisoning the smallfolk and harming women.
"Third: Twisting holy doctrine and trampling dignity.
"Fourth: Unlawful imprisonment and private torture.
"Fifth: Fraudulent collection of alms.
"Sixth: Inciting riots and plotting rebellion.
"Seventh: Usurping sacred authority and coveting divine power!"
Each charge sent a fresh ripple through the crowd. By the last one, the square was roaring with condemnation—far more fervent than when these same people had swallowed the Sparrow's hallucinogenic "grace."
Once the noise died down a little, the High Septon continued:
"These are not ordinary crimes. They are corruption at the very root of the Faith and poison poured into the souls of the faithful!"
"Therefore, the Faith has unanimously decreed the highest punishment: Seven Days of Holy Judgment!"
"Seven Days of Holy Judgment?"
"What the hell is that? Never heard of it."
The High Septon cleared his throat and explained:
"The Seven Days of Holy Judgment correspond to the seven faces of the gods.
"Each day, the punishment will match the aspect of the god he most profaned—torment for both body and soul.
"Day One—Father's Day: Punishment of the Judging Hand. He rendered false judgment, so we take away the tools of judgment.
"Day Two—Mother's Day: Punishment of the Merciful Breast. He twisted mercy into cruelty, so we dry up the source of his false compassion.
"Day Three—Warrior's Day: Punishment of the Warrior's Feet. He profaned strength to bully the weak, so we break the path of his conquest.
"Day Four—Maiden's Day: Punishment of the Pure Face. He defiled purity to satisfy his lust, so we blind the windows through which he spied.
"Day Five—Smith's Day: Punishment of the Working Body. He denied honest labor and stole the fruits of creation, so we dismantle the body he misused.
"Day Six—Crone's Day: Punishment of the Lamp of Wisdom. He faked wisdom to lead people into darkness, so we extinguish his false light.
"Day Seven—Stranger's Day: The Final Revelation. He abused the fear of death and profaned life, so we make him stare into the void!"
Every new punishment named drew fresh gasps and murmurs. The list sounded so ritualistically cruel that even the nobles traded uneasy glances while commoners made the sign of the seven-pointed star.
Finally the High Septon declared:
"If this man can endure seven days of holy judgment with sincere repentance, and still draw breath on the seventh day, it will prove his heart may yet be redeemed and his sins possibly forgiven.
"This is the one thread of mercy the Seven offer in their infinite severity!"
A heavy silence fell over the square. All eyes turned to the Sparrow.
Then the man who had kept his head bowed suddenly jerked it up. A twisted, fanatical smile split his face and he began to laugh—loud, wild, unhinged.
"Hahaha… Yes! Seven Days of Holy Judgment!
"This is the final trial the Seven have given me—the last seven steps on the path to true sainthood!"
His bloodshot eyes swept the crowd with mad intensity.
"Do you see? This is the road of the chosen! The saints of old walked it before me. This is my glory! My crown!"
He strained against the ropes, trying to stand taller, and screamed at the sky:
"We are born in sin! The world is our cage!
"I will shed my blood for all of you! I will prove that the truly chosen fear no worldly torment!
"The Seven are with me!
"In seven days you will witness the birth of a saint—stronger and purer than before!"
His insane declaration echoed across the plaza.
Some people looked afraid. A few of his former followers began to waver. If he really survived…
Wouldn't that be a true miracle?
Corleone stood on a raised step at the edge of the crowd, watching the spectacle with no expression.
"Crazy bastard," Iggo spat beside him. "In the Dothraki Sea I kill dozens like him every year."
"Not entirely," Corleone said quietly. "He's still scheming, still trying to set up his legacy even now."
"If he somehow survives these inhuman seven days—even if he's only got one breath left—today's suffering will become the perfect legend. His fame will skyrocket. People will tell how he endured the Seven's torments and did not break."
"The man's hunger for power has gone beyond fear, beyond reason. It's pure instinct now. Unfortunately…"
"Unfortunately what?" Iggo asked.
"Unfortunately, steel will alone isn't enough to survive the seven punishments I personally designed."
Corleone raised an eyebrow as the executioners stepped forward. "At the very least you also need a body made of steel."
He was right.
By the evening of the first day—Father's Day—after his fingers had been methodically pierced and sealed with hot honey, the Sparrow was still trying to preach.
"Look… this… is the test! My blood… flows for you… atonement… everyone must atone…"
On the second day—Mother's Day—the mixture of wormwood and salt crystals applied to his chest and stomach, then wrapped in wine-soaked burlap, reduced his voice to wheezing gasps. He could no longer form complete sentences.
On the third day—Warrior's Day—heavy hammers slowly shattered his ankles and the arches of his feet. His screams became weak. His body convulsed uncontrollably, eyes rolling back, losing control of his bowels. The stench spread.
By the fourth day, when they coated his face with the foul mixture, he barely reacted at all.
That evening, when they moved him back into the iron cage, the guards found his body already cold.
The Sparrow was dead.
He never made it through the Seven Days of Holy Judgment.
His corpse was disposed of quietly on the morning of the fifth day, thrown into the sea.
The plaza was scrubbed clean. The seven pillars were removed. It was as if none of it had ever happened.
Only the memories of those who had watched and the whispered rumors in the streets remained as proof that a madman had once dreamed of ascending to heaven, only to fall and shatter on the steps.
Fifth day.
Morning at the Hall of Order.
The smell of fresh bread and herb porridge filled the air.
Corleone sat by the window, enjoying a simple breakfast—boiled eggs, bacon, grilled mushrooms, and a cup of warm sheep's milk sweetened with honey.
Outside, the streets of Flea Bottom were noticeably cleaner. The lines for porridge had become orderly. Soon everyone would have new jobs and be able to support themselves without needing charity.
In the training yard, Brienne was drilling several young men in basic sword forms, her sharp commands ringing out clearly.
At first the boys had refused to take instruction from a woman—until Brienne smashed a training post to splinters with one punch.
Iggo leaned against the doorway, sharpening his short sword, eyes never leaving the big woman, clearly already planning how many strong children they would have.
Everything felt peaceful. Orderly. Full of slow, solid life.
This was the feeling Corleone liked.
Footsteps approached the door at an even pace.
Corleone didn't look up until they stopped beside his table.
White armor. Streaks of gray in the golden hair. A handsome face carrying the weight of exhaustion.
"Hey, Jaime!"
Corleone stood and embraced him, clapping the hard backplate.
Jaime's tension eased a little at the contact.
He'd been back in King's Landing for over two weeks, but Cersei still refused to let him touch her. At least here he could feel some warmth.
"Corleone," Jaime said, voice rough.
He gripped Corleone's shoulders, hesitated, then spoke as if the words cost him:
"Cersei wants to see you."
Cersei?
The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister?
Corleone raised an eyebrow.
Why did she want to see him?
A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind. Had someone leaked that he possessed [Bed Skill Lv. 3]? Did the Queen Regent have a taste for that sort of thing?
Before he could spiral further, Jaime stepped closer and lowered his voice:
"Robb Stark… the King in the North… is dead."