Chapter 95 – Polish My Shoes
The basement.
Low-quality candles burned unevenly, thick smoke curling along the stone ceiling.
The High Sparrow sat cross-legged on a coarse hemp mat. Before him lay the battered, time-worn Seven-Pointed Star. Candlelight flickered deep within his sunken eye sockets, making his gaunt face resemble a statue that had somehow learned how to breathe.
"Our brothers and sisters," he said softly, "are fewer again. By more than a dozen."
One of the core members spoke up.
"Old Limping Barr went to the so-called Hall of Order yesterday. He took their porridge—and even sent his wife there to be treated for her cough."
"The widows on Steel Street had their leaking roofs repaired by Odin's people."
"And the dockworkers, the prostitutes, the tanners…"
"They don't discriminate. Anyone who goes gets food. Anyone who's sick gets treated."
Silence fell over the room.
Just days ago, they had commanded hundreds of fanatic Protectors. Every sermon at Fisherman's Square, Salted Meat Street, or Mud Lane drew nearly a thousand listeners.
"Sheep always stray."
The High Sparrow's voice remained calm. His fingers gently stroked the rough pages of scripture, as though the bad news had never reached his ears.
He didn't look up.
"Worldly temptations—food, medicine—are the Devil's sweetest bait. They feed the flesh while starving the soul."
"But… High Sparrow," someone ventured nervously.
"Our bread is almost gone. The ingredients for the holy broth are running out as well. The supplier hasn't appeared in three days."
"And fewer people come to hear the gospel with each passing day."
"So…"
The High Sparrow finally raised his eyes.
They were like two deep wells.
"You are beginning to doubt."
The room stiffened.
"To doubt our path? To doubt the Seven's mission for us?"
"No! Of course not!" the others rushed to deny it.
He slowly closed the scripture and stood.
"Remember this, brothers and sisters."
"We walk a narrow road. A road of thorns."
"Those who choose the wide path—who choose comfort—have already priced their souls."
"A bowl of porridge. A few herbs. A roof that doesn't leak."
"And we…"
"We choose to bear the sins of the world."
"That," he said quietly, "is our glory."
His coarse robe hung down to his ankles as he asked,
"What of Flea Bottom? Are tongues still spreading the truth?"
A subordinate immediately replied,
"As instructed, we've released the truth—and it's spreading fast."
"Odin has already been labeled a demon by many."
"Some say he performs sacrifices at night in the Hall of Order, mixing infant blood into his medicines."
"Others say he's a blood warlock from across the Narrow Sea—those gray eyes steal souls."
"And some swear the Dothraki savage at his side eats a living heart every week, or else he goes mad."
"Good."
The High Sparrow nodded, pupils contracting slightly.
"A lie repeated a thousand times becomes truth to the foolish."
"And before truth is completely defiled…"
"We reclaim the Sept."
He drew out a rolled parchment and unfurled it beneath the candlelight.
A crude floor plan—clearly a grand structure.
"The time has come."
His gaze lingered on a particular mark, his voice still calm, though faintly trembling.
"The High Septon has suffered a sudden stroke."
"Tomorrow night, seven Archseptons and twelve High Septons will gather in the inner sanctum to elect his successor."
"What?!"
The room erupted in barely restrained excitement.
They were registered clergy, yes—but never allowed into the Sept itself. Mere wandering brothers.
Yet after the war began, this barefoot preacher arrived in King's Landing, united them, forged them into a terrifying force.
If the High Sparrow could be elevated now…
"Is the information reliable?" an elderly septa asked shakily.
The High Sparrow glanced at her.
He did not answer.
Because the source was a knight whose eldest son had been violated by a High Septon—justice denied, sanity shattered. The man now slept only with the help of the "calming draught" provided by the Sparrow.
Reliable beyond doubt.
"Tomorrow night, one hundred and twenty of our most devout will surround the Great Sept."
"The guards number fewer than ten."
"One hundred and twenty versus ten—advantage is ours."
He lifted his gaze, memorizing every face.
Any hint of hesitation would be remembered. And settled later.
"We will enter the Sept."
"And the bishops in silk robes—who feast on candied fruit, debate theology, and have never known hunger—will finally see…"
"What true faith looks like."
The High Sparrow spread his arms, as though already standing upon the altar.
---
The following night, the moon hung full and bright like a silver stag above the seven-pointed spire of the Great Sept of Baelor.
From the shadows at the edge of the square, a black mass of figures surged forward.
All wore dark clothes. All carried weapons.
Axes. Cleavers. Even a few stolen swords.
Their strides were exaggerated, their eyes aflame with fanatic zeal.
"Just as you said, High Sparrow!"
A breathless follower hurried over.
"Only eight guards—half asleep! The doors aren't even locked!"
The High Sparrow nodded.
Too smooth.
So smooth it stirred a flicker of unease—quickly crushed.
This is destiny, he told himself.
The Seven chose me because only those who have suffered can understand suffering's holiness.
And I—
I am chosen.
Midnight bells rang in the distance.
"It is time."
One raised hand.
No speech. Just a signal.
The crowd surged forward like a tide.
The doors were unlocked.
They burst inside.
Dim candlelit corridors. Empty.
Footsteps echoed against stone.
The High Sparrow walked among them, bare feet touching polished marble for the first time—yet he felt no cold.
With every step, destiny drew closer.
They passed the nave.
Statues of the Seven watched in silence. Stained glass glimmered under moonlight. The Sept was unnervingly quiet—nothing but breathing and footsteps.
Ahead: the inner sanctum.
Two massive oak doors, carved with scripture. Warm candlelight spilled through the cracks.
At a nod, the doors were thrown open.
Inside—smaller than expected.
A long ebony table at the center.
Seven Archseptons seated.
Twelve High Septons standing.
Exactly as foretold.
Nineteen heads turned.
The eldest Archsepton, gray-haired and composed, spoke evenly:
"Armed intrusion into the inner sanctum is a grave crime. Do you understand this?"
The High Sparrow stepped forward.
His robe swept across the marble as his Protectors fanned out, weapons leveled.
"We understand sin very well, Archsepton."
He pulled out the chair at the head of the table—the High Septon's seat—and sat down calmly.
"We sleep beside sin every day."
"Hunger is sin. Disease is sin. Being born into this filthy world is sin."
The Archsepton's eyes narrowed.
"And what do you intend?"
"The Seven have spoken."
Candlelight rose from below, illuminating the Sparrow's face until he looked like a living icon.
"This church is rotten to the bone."
"It requires not reform…"
"…but purification."
"And that purification begins tonight."
The Protectors slammed their weapons against the floor.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Like funeral drums.
A younger Archsepton trembled.
"You… you want to be High Septon?"
"Not want."
The High Sparrow corrected him, eyes fixed on the jeweled seven-pointed star at the elder's throat.
"It is the will of the Seven."
"They have spoken through the cries of the poor, the groans of the sick, the deaths of infants."
"They have declared it time for someone who truly understands sin and punishment…"
"…to rule this church."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Absolute.
The old Archsepton's gaze swept over the Protectors surrounding him—over their crude yet lethal weapons—before finally settling back on the High Sparrow's face.
"I have heard of you," the Archsepton said calmly.
"High Sparrow."
As he spoke, he reached up and slowly removed the seven-pointed star from around his neck, placing it gently upon the ebony table.
"You preach among the poor. You humiliate women through shameful rituals. You deceive the masses with what you call 'blessings.'"
"You claim that mankind is born in sin…"
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Then tell me—are you not sin itself?"
For a heartbeat, the hall fell silent.
Then the Protectors erupted.
Shouts of fury thundered through the chamber. Weapons rattled. Faces twisted with rage.
The High Sparrow was their prophet, their savior.
They would not tolerate insult—not even from an Archsepton.
"Enough."
The High Sparrow raised a hand.
The uproar died instantly.
He looked at the old man's deeply lined face—and smiled.
"You do not understand, Archsepton," he said softly.
"Those are not sins. They are medicine."
"Just as a physician cuts away rotting flesh with a red-hot blade—yes, the patient screams, curses, begs—but it is done to save his life."
"The pain I give is salvation."
"Redemption requires blood and tears. It requires humiliation before witnesses. It requires suffering of the flesh and the complete annihilation of the self."
"Yes—man is born in sin. Corruption begins in the womb."
"And I," he said, spreading his arms, "have washed myself clean through decades of suffering."
His eyes swept across the nineteen church leaders.
"Now—here and now—by the will of the Seven, elect me as the new High Septon."
"You may refuse."
"But understand this—your refusal will mean that you have failed the Seven's final trial."
"And those who fail…"
He did not finish the sentence.
The Protectors raised their weapons another inch.
The High Sparrow's eyes gleamed with certainty.
Victory was inevitable.
And then—
A sharp whistling crack split the air.
Thud!
A crossbow bolt punched cleanly into the chest of the Protector nearest the Archsepton.
The man stared down at the trembling fletching, mouth opening soundlessly—then collapsed backward.
The High Sparrow's pupils shrank violently.
Before anyone could react—
Second bolt.
Third.
Fourth.
A storm of bolts rained down.
Military-issue crossbow bolts.
The Protectors wore no armor.
They fell in heaps.
"Ambush!" someone screamed.
Chaos erupted—but these fanatics were untrained. They did not know how to scatter, how to seek cover. Screams blended with the sound of bodies hitting stone.
Then something worse happened.
The twelve "High Septons"—and six of the seven Archseptons—tore away their robes.
Beneath them: gleaming crimson armor.
Golden lions emblazoned on their chests.
Lannister.
The High Sparrow stared, stunned, seated in the High Septon's chair like a carved idol.
The knights drew blades from beneath the table and advanced.
Their movements were clean. Efficient. Professional.
The Protectors did not last a heartbeat.
Even those brave enough to strike found their weapons skidding uselessly off steel plate.
Then every door of the Sept burst open.
Dozens—hundreds—of soldiers in mail and gold cloaks flooded inside.
It was all false.
Only now did the High Sparrow understand.
The election was false.
The Archseptons were false.
The intelligence was false.
The only real thing—
Was the trap.
He lurched to his feet, dizziness crashing over him, gripping the table to stay upright.
Around him, the slaughter was ending.
Of the one hundred and twenty Protectors, fewer than twenty remained alive—forced into corners, kneeling, sobbing for mercy.
He stood in a sea of blood.
A fool on a stolen throne.
"Why…?" he whispered.
"It's impossible… this can't be…"
"There is no 'impossible.'"
The voice came from the entrance.
The High Sparrow looked up.
A man in a black robe walked in at an unhurried pace, as though strolling through his own home.
He toyed with a gold dragon coin in his fingers, carefully stepping around blood pools so as not to dirty his boots.
The High Sparrow's lips trembled.
No sound came out.
"You twisted faith, played with human misery, and barged into a game of power," the man said calmly.
"You thought you were climbing a mountain."
"But in truth—you never even reached the foothills."
The soldiers parted naturally as Odin walked forward, stopping directly before the High Sparrow.
He looked into those hollow eyes and smiled.
"For the son of a cobbler, Marlos, you did remarkably well."
"But unfortunately…"
"In this game of thrones, the only thing you're qualified to do now—"
Odin leaned slightly forward.
"—is polish my shoes."