"Ser Theodoric, you have gone too far this time!"
The speaker was Chataya, a tall, striking woman with skin as dark as polished teak and eyes the color of sandalwood. A native of the Summer Isles, she ran the most prestigious brothel in King's Landing—a place where High Lords and merchant princes spent enough gold in a night to feed a village for a year.
Now, with this swarm of "Sparrows" causing a riot at her gates, her wealthy clientele had vanished like mist. If she didn't act, the business that fed her daughters and protected her girls would collapse.
"I am no daughter of the Seven Kingdoms, but I have always been pious to the gods and loyal to the Iron Throne," Chataya said, her voice rising to a regal command. "I have never shirked the extra tithes demanded by Lord Tyrion. You would do well to remember who protects this house."
Theodoric, who had known the inside of such houses in his youth but hadn't stepped foot in one since finding the Light, looked at her coldly. He knew that seven-tenths of the brothels in the city belonged to Petyr Baelish, and the rest were tangled in the webs of the Great Houses. To strike at Chataya was to pull a thread that led straight to the Red Keep.
"Ser Theodoric," Chataya whispered, leaning over the balcony. "As a gesture of my devotion, perhaps ten gold dragons as a 'contribution' to your flock would ease this tension?"
Theodoric looked up, his gaze like flint. "Chataya, do not think you can corrupt the Sun with gold. Your business is your own today, but Friar Olido is ours. He is a Most Devout, a man who claims to speak for the Father, yet he wallows in the flesh like a beast. If such rot goes unpunished, where is the Light's justice?"
He stepped forward, shoving aside Chataya's hired steel with a strength that didn't belong to a man of his build. He seized the blubbering, naked Friar by the arm and dragged him into the street. The guards hesitated, looking at the zealots' torches and the cold discipline in Theodoric's eyes, and eventually lowered their blades.
Chataya watched from above, biting her lip until it bled. Since Littlefinger had fled for the Vale, she had relied on the Imp and Shae for protection. But Tywin was dead, the Imp was a fugitive, and the city was sliding into chaos.
A mob of beggars executing 'Divine Will' at my door... she thought, her heart heavy. What do I do now?
She had heard Alis Waters had returned from the Gods Eye with strange new luxuries. Perhaps it was time to find a new patron—one who carried the scent of the Sun rather than the rot of the Lions.
As the Sparrows marched away, a small boy—no more than seven—slipped behind the kitchen of the brothel. He lifted a heavy cellar grate, pushed aside a crate of rotting onions, and vanished into the dark.
The crawlspace was a nightmare of damp mold and the skittering of vermin. The boy moved with practiced ease, his knees and elbows calloused by miles of stone tunnels. He reached the end of the shaft and emerged into a room lit by a single, flickering oil lamp.
The walls were stained black with soot. Caskets of scrolls and ancient ledgers occupied the corners. At a heavy oak table sat a man who looked like a mountain of soft silk—Varys, the Master of Whispers. He was writing furiously with a quill, his shadow dancing on the wall like a giant spider.
"Varys!" the boy chirped.
"Ah, my sweet Mark!" Varys looked up, a soft smile spreading across his powdered face. He reached into his robes and produced a small square of refined white sugar, popping it into the boy's mouth. "Tell me, little bird. What song did you hear today?"
The boy, his mouth full of sweetness, gestured and spoke in the hushed, clipped tones of a trained spy. He told the Spider everything he had seen at Chataya's.
"The Sparrows have grown teeth?" Varys mused, his shock genuine.
Born a slave in Lys, Varys had clawed his way out of the gutter through a terrifying combination of caution and cruelty. He still remembered the cold bite of the sorcerer's blade in Myr—the agony that had defined his life. He knew better than any Lord that for the poor, the only thing worse than death was the long, slow crawl toward it.
Why were these "wretches" suddenly daring to challenge the Most Devout? Faith alone did not provide such spine.
Varys pressed a few copper pennies into the boy's hand and dismissed him. He then moved through a hidden door, changed into the gray rags of a beggar, glued a matted beard to his chin, and slipped into the city's underbelly.
Varys emerged from the sewers into the heart of Flea Bottom. The stench was a physical blow—sour wine, old piss, and the thick, heavy scent of "Bowl of Brown" cooking in iron pots.
Above, the clouds were a heavy black curtain, choking out the moon. The narrow alleys were lined with sagging hovels that looked like ancient cripples leaning on one another for support. Rats scurried through piles of trash, their fat bodies glistening in the dim light of scattered lanterns.
Varys moved with a wooden staff, his eyes scanning for the usual predators. To his surprise, the alleys were quiet. Men who usually spent their nights sharpening knives or shaking down drunks were nowhere to be seen.
As he neared a corner, a lean monk and two men with heavy woodsman's axes stepped into his path.
"Brother, may the Seven shield you," Varys said, adopting a wheezing beggar's whine.
"And may they shield you," the monk replied. "You are new to these stones. I do not know your face."
"I am Gardner," Varys lied. "Fled from Hayford. My septry was burned, my brothers scattered... I seek souls to save."
The monk snorted, eyeing Varys's girth. "You've eaten well for a man in flight."
Varys patted his stomach. "A trial from the gods, brother. Tell me, I seek Flea Bottom's lost souls, but the streets are empty. Do they hide from me?"
"They have been found," the monk said with a chilling smile. "The righteous are asleep, and the wicked have learned to respect the Faith. You'll find no 'lost' souls here. Go to the Great Sept. The camp welcomes those who walk the Path."
"The Great Sept?" Varys blinked. "The High Lords welcome a beggar-monk?"
"Not the Sept itself, but the camp of the High Sparrow. Tell them Brother Ruen of Maidenpool sent you."
Varys watched the "Brother" walk away. Behind the monk, one of the axemen whispered, "He doesn't look like a man of prayer, Ruen."
"It matters not," Ruen replied. "If he has darkness in him, Belen will make him speak."
Belen was a veteran under Ser Theodoric, a man who knew how to extract truth from flesh. Varys felt a cold shiver go down his spine. This was a new kind of order—an order born of the Light but forged in the grit of the slums.
Varys finally reached the plaza outside the Great Sept of Baelor. Even in the dark, the sight took his breath away. The grand marble steps were a sea of brown-robed bodies. Thousands of refugees were camped in the gardens, their canvas tents and mud huts defiling the pristine marble of the plaza. They had even spread their bedrolls on the steps beneath the pulpit.
Varys's mouth twitched. He wasn't sure if he was amused or terrified. One thing was certain: when Queen Cersei looked out from the Red Keep and saw this sea of filth encroaching on her holy hill, there would be blood. But for the first time in his life, the Spider wasn't sure whose blood it would be.
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