Chapter 96 — The Judgment Has Only Just Begun
The High Sparrow knelt weakly on the ground.
Odin had been right.
He was the son of a cobbler.
His father had spent forty years hammering leather beside Cobbler's Square.
Marlos remembered the smell of leather.
And he remembered the shoes.
The mud-caked sandals of farmers.
The worn soft boots of merchants.
Even the steel sabatons worn by knights.
But the pair he remembered most clearly was a priest's one.
It was made of deep purple velvet.
Across the surface ran intricate seven-pointed star patterns embroidered in gold thread, and along the edges hung tiny pearls.
When his father held those shoes in his hands, repairing them with the softest lambskin lining, Marlos watched from the side.
For the first time in his life, he felt something like a divine presence descend upon him.
His head spun.
Not because of the shoes themselves—
but because of his father's expression.
The man who usually barked impatiently at drunken sailors and haggling prostitutes now handled the shoes as though they were the Holy Child itself.
He even softened his breathing.
When the repair was finished, the priest casually flicked a silver stag onto the workbench.
It clinked brightly.
Then he slipped the shoes back on, stepped across the floor scattered with leather scraps and dust, and left without a backward glance.
The silver coin rolled halfway through the grime before coming to rest beside a pile of scrap leather.
His father silently picked it up and returned to hammering the next pair of shoes.
But Marlos watched the purple figure of the priest disappearing into sunlight, and something took root inside him.
That night, he told his father he wanted to go to the Sept to serve as a helper.
His father merely glanced at the patched, filthy toes of his shoes.
He said nothing.
And let him go.
---
Life in the Sept was another kind of suffering.
Marlos swept floors, polished candlesticks, washed sacred vessels.
He was closer now to those men in purple robes and golden chains.
Yet somehow they seemed farther away than ever.
Once he watched a drunken young priest toss the remains of a roasted pigeon out the window.
The scraps alone could have fed Marlos for a week.
But what disturbed him most… were their feet.
As he knelt scrubbing the marble floors, countless pairs of shoes passed before his eyes.
Velvet.
Embroidery.
Jewels.
Every single pair declared the same truth:
Their world had nothing to do with him.
He began to hate shoes.
He hated the beautiful shells that divided human beings into ranks and classes.
Then one day, a wild thought began to grow inside his mind:
If we stripped away these stinking skins… these splendid shells… would we not be equal before the gods?
So he stood before the statues of the Seven.
He removed the only pair of coarse cloth shoes he owned and placed his bare feet on the cold marble floor.
Then he tore the sleeves from his servant's robe.
Looking up at the Father Above, he murmured the one passage of scripture he had memorized:
"Shoes blind the eyes.
Fine robes conceal the heart.
Only bare feet touching the earth may feel the gods' pain.
Only rough cloth upon the body may approach divinity…"
He had chanted for two days and two nights.
The septons grew frightened and reported it to the septon. But when the septon came and saw him, even he felt uneasy. No one dared approach or stop him.
Only when Marlos finally collapsed from exhaustion did the chanting cease.
When he awoke, he was neither expelled nor punished.
Instead, his name was recorded in the rolls of the Faith.
He was formally accepted as a true septon.
And in that moment, he understood.
Extreme humility could become the sharpest weapon of all—one capable of piercing the hypocrisy hidden beneath luxurious robes.
They possessed silk, jewels, and power.
But they did not dare to be as pure as he was.
So he pushed it further.
Even in winter he walked barefoot.
He wore only the roughest sackcloth.
He reduced his food until it barely sustained life.
He slept little, spending hours kneeling in prayer until he fainted.
He no longer called himself Marlos.
Whenever someone asked his name, he would answer only:
"A sinner… unworthy of a name."
Yet one day he realized something.
No matter how devout he became, he would never truly become a septon.
And so, wearing the shoes he had forged for himself—shoes made of suffering, obsession, and fanatic belief—he left King's Landing.
He would walk the road that those who wore velvet shoes would never dare to tread.
He would reach for the power they dreamed of, yet could never truly grasp.
For decades he traveled across the Seven Kingdoms.
In Oldtown he learned how to mix potions.
He created carefully staged "miracles" to manufacture hope.
He used cruel "purification rituals" to establish authority.
He understood the despair of the common folk.
And he understood that the hypocrisy of the nobles was the perfect shield.
He was no longer the servant boy who envied the septon's shoes.
He had become someone who made septons lose sleep at night.
The High Sparrow.
And yesterday—finally—he had believed he had escaped the fate of a cobbler's son.
Barefoot, surrounded by fanatical believers, he had stepped onto the path toward ultimate power.
Until this moment.
Now he knelt in blood.
And the man dressed in black had exposed everything.
As if all he had done was transform envy of shoes… into an obsession with removing them.
In truth, he had never left that leather-smelling workshop.
Not even once.
He had always been—
A cobbler.
---
"I refuse to accept this."
Memories of the past flooded his mind.
The High Sparrow lifted his head, the mask of serene compassion finally shattered.
Through a hoarse voice he demanded:
"That knight… that knight had already surrendered himself completely to the Seven!
How did you know my plan?!"
"Oh, you mean Ser Carlyle."
Odin looked at him calmly.
There was not a ripple of emotion on his face.
He even called the knight by name.
Then he turned slightly and beckoned to someone cleaning the battlefield.
"Ser Carlyle, someone here would like to see you."
A tall, imposing figure soon approached.
He wore full plate armor of excellent make.
When he removed his helmet, the face of a man around forty appeared.
His gaze passed briefly over the wretched Marlos without pause before he dropped to one knee before Odin.
"Lord Odin."
"You… you deceived me!"
Seeing the knight's face, the High Sparrow exploded in rage.
"Your son was defiled by a septon!
You said you would devote the rest of your life to repentance—
that your soul and sword would serve the will of the Seven!"
"His son was violated."
Odin raised a hand slightly.
His tone remained calm.
"But the difference is this—"
"You gave him hallucinogens and empty promises of 'divine grace.'"
"And I…"
"…gave him justice."
He turned toward the knight.
"That septon—you threw him into the Blackwater yourself, didn't you?"
"Yes!"
Ser Carlyle slammed his fist against his chest and bowed deeply.
"Thank you for delivering justice for me, Lord Odin!"
Odin waved dismissively.
"Good. Off you go. Your work tonight isn't finished yet."
The knight rose immediately and departed.
---
"N… impossible…"
The scene shattered the High Sparrow's worldview.
His eyes lost focus.
"Impossible… the Faith is independent of royal power…
Even the King or the Hand cannot command them…"
"How could you possibly—"
"See, this is the difference between you and me, Marlos."
Odin stepped closer and spoke quietly.
"You manipulate hearts. You use fear, illusions of hope, and glorified suffering to make people kneel before you."
"And then you grant them your so-called divine mercy."
"But what I deal in…"
"…is favors."
"…and business."
He nodded toward the old High Septon nearby.
"When his daughter suffered obstructed labor, it was my scalpel that cut open her belly and delivered the child safely."
"Mother and child both survived."
"And the High Septon's son—"
"He had a strange illness. His body covered in suppurating sores. Every maester said it was incurable."
"But I cured him."
"That boy is running around happily now."
"And there's Septon Rall, Sister Winnie, septon Stephen…"
"In other words—"
"The City Watch, the Lannisters, and even the Faith itself are all my friends now."
"How exactly do you plan to fight me?"
Odin straightened.
"You see, all I did was offer a few minor favors when they needed them."
"And people—especially respectable people—always remember who helped them when they were desperate."
"That is what we call human favors."
"And favors and interests…"
"…are chains far stronger than any contract or oath."
---
The last trace of color drained from the High Sparrow's face.
He trembled uncontrollably.
Something that had supported him for decades was collapsing.
"Blasphemy…"
His lips quivered.
"This is vile blasphemy!
You defile the sacred temple of the Seven with filthy worldly tricks!"
"You vermin have burrowed into the heart of the gods!"
"Save it, Marlos."
Odin's expression turned completely cold.
"Drop the act. No matter how good the performance is—"
"…there's no audience left."
"You never believed in the Seven."
"The only thing you ever chased…"
"…was power."
"No!"
The High Sparrow shouted.
"I was chosen by the Seven to cleanse the sins of mankind!"
"Oh?"
Odin stepped closer.
"If you weren't so desperate to seize power—"
"why did you bite the bait I cast so eagerly?"
"Why did you bite so deeply… and refuse to let go?"
His black eyes stared directly into Marlos's soul.
They stripped away every layer of his pitiful disguise.
"To be honest, Marlos—"
"you and I both exploit human desire."
"But the difference is this."
"You give them illusions, so they can become the ladder you climb."
"I give them real things."
"Health. Safety. Justice."
"Sometimes just a job that lets them eat."
"You promise blessings in the next life."
"I give them bread today… and a future tomorrow."
Odin leaned back slightly and studied the colorless face before him.
Every word pierced like a blade.
"You think you lost tonight?"
"No."
"You lost the moment you used your first vial of hallucinogens to control people."
"That was the moment you parted ways with anything called 'holy.'"
"You're not a chosen prophet."
"You're just a cobbler who accidentally discovered…"
"…that hallucinogens work better than the Seven-Pointed Star."
Odin turned away, clearly losing interest.
"A very poor craftsman…"
"…of shoes."
---
The High Sparrow remained kneeling.
His forehead pressed helplessly against the ground.
Even the last fragment of his spine seemed to have been ripped away.
He had lost.
Lost to swords.
Lost to strategy.
And lost to power.
---
"Oh, right."
Just before leaving the sept, Odin spoke again.
He did not turn around.
Only tilted his head slightly.
Firelight carved deep shadows across his profile.
"Thanks to you, all the troublemakers in Flea Bottom came out of hiding."
"You saved me the effort of hunting them down one by one."
"As a token of my appreciation…"
"Your trial will last quite a while."
"Look forward to it, Marlos."
"This…"
"…is only the beginning."