The next day.
Fishermans Square sits right next to the Mud Gate, some distance from the heart of Flea Bottom, but that distance is no barrier to the march of hunger and disease.
As dawn barely broke, people began to trickle out of the shanties and squalid alleys of Flea Bottom.
Most were dressed in rags, their faces sallow and eyes numb, shuffling listlessly toward Fishermans Square like a crowd of marionettes pulled by invisible strings.
"Hurry up, Uncle Al Capone!"
A boy of about twelve or thirteen led the way.
His left leg was twisted at an impossibly exaggerated angle, dangling uselessly from the joint, yet he seemed to feel no pain. He walked with a heavy limp, one shoulder higher than the other, but his speed didn't slacken at all. He kept looking back to wave at those behind him: "If we get there late, we won't get a spot at the front, and the bread they give out will be tiny!"
There was a strange feverishness on the boy's face, his eyes frighteningly bright—a typical symptom of long-term hallucinogen use.
This was Little Tommy, a porter's son. After breaking his leg, he had been "tested" by the septon for five days before receiving "treatment."
Hearing this, Corleone nodded and gestured for Yigo to keep close.
They both wore coarse cloth similar to those around them, with hearth ash smeared on their faces. Aside from being more upright than the average pauper, they were not conspicuous.
The procession of two or three hundred people wound through the morning mist like a sick giant serpent crawling toward its lair.
The sounds of footsteps, coughing, and low whispers mingled together, the air thick with the stench of sour rot and disease.
It was the smell called "poverty."
"You are angry, blood of my blood."
Yigo followed closely. After a long silence, he said in a low voice, "I've felt it since you smashed the table yesterday."
"Why expend so much effort and so many Gold Dragons just to deal with an old man?"
"Let me go. I could bring his head back tonight."
Corleone did not answer Yigo's question immediately.
His gaze swept over the crowd around them.
A young mother held a wailing infant; perhaps her milk had run dry, for the child's cries were weak and listless.
A man with a missing hand had a black, festering rag wrapped around the stump, emitting a putrid odor.
And there was Little Tommy, limping forward relentlessly...
These people had hollow eyes and unsteady steps, yet they all moved in the same direction.
Because they believed—or forced themselves to believe—that hope lay there.
"Where I come from,"
Corleone finally spoke, "there is a type of sin considered the most unforgivable."
"What sin?" Yigo asked.
"Profiting from the suffering of others," Corleone said. "Steal a poor man's money, and you're a thief."
"But to give a starving man poisoned bread and tell him it's a gift from the gods... that is a'sin'."
Tywin wants power, Petyr wants chaos. They are both playing a game—filthy, bloody, but at least the price is clearly marked."
"But that charlatan... what he's selling is false hope."
"And false hope is more cruel than true despair."
"He gives starving people bread laced with lime, gives the sick poison that merely prolongs their life, and tells them it's 'divine grace'."
"He makes a mother kneel and pray for half a loaf of moldy bread, makes a father bash his head bloody to prove his piety to save his child, and makes a boy with a broken leg accept the hallucinogenic soup that 'cured' him with tears of gratitude after five days of fever!"
He paused, his voice turning colder: "False hope is more cruel than true despair."
Yigo was silent for a moment.
He didn't quite understand everything, but he grasped the general meaning.
The Dothraki worshiped strength and respected the cruel laws of survival, but they also loathed this kind of "evil magic."
"You want to save these people?" Yigo asked again. "They are just weeds on the plains; cut them down and they grow back on their own."
"They are human beings."
Corleone corrected him, but seeing the still-uncomprehending look in Yigo's eyes, he simply shook his head and switched to an explanation the man could understand: "Let's put it this way—they are my property."
"And while protecting my property, I want to give them a choice."
"Kneel and eat poison, or stand and eat clean bread... they can choose for themselves."
"And besides."
Corleone's gaze drifted into the depths of the morning mist, where the outline of the square was now faintly visible. "Just killing that old man would be too easy on him."
"One stroke of the blade and he becomes a martyr. His followers might think he was persecuted to death by a demon, making them even more fanatical."
"I want to... kill the heart!"
"Kill the heart?"
Hearing this, Yigo first frowned in confusion, then nodded vigorously: "I understand!"
Understand?
Corleone glanced at him, unsure what this man who had never read a book could possibly have understood.
As they spoke, Fishermans Square appeared before them.
In the center, a simple platform about waist-high had been built from scrap wood and old barrels. The platform was empty except for a polished, shining stone.
Three or four hundred people had already gathered around.
In the innermost circle, right next to the platform, were about thirty or forty people dressed relatively neatly. Their expressions were solemn as they stood straight with hands clasped in front of them, their eyes filled with intense fanaticism.
Corleone noticed that their sleeves were bulging, likely concealing clubs or similar weapons; they were presumably playing the role of "Faith Protectors."
The middle circle consisted of about a hundred people.
They knelt on the ground, some with palms together, others prostrating themselves in a respectful posture. These were clearly those who had already passed the initial "test" and received "divine grace."
Little Tommy with the broken leg was among them.
The outermost circle was the largest, making up the majority of the crowd.
They stood or squatted, their eyes filled mostly with confusion and the pain of hunger and disease, waiting expectantly for the distribution of food and medicine.
Hundreds of people were huddled together, yet it was unnervingly quiet.
There was no whispering, no shouting; an invisible discipline blanketed the square, more solemn even than the Lannister armies known for their military discipline.
Corleone and Yigo blended into the edge of the outermost circle, specifically choosing a spot where they could see the whole scene without being noticed.
Sunlight gradually pierced through the mist.
Before long, there was a stir in the innermost circle.
The protectors all knelt on one knee in unison, heads bowed.
Then, a figure emerged slowly from a small sept on the east side of the square.
He was tall and thin with long gray hair, wearing a coarse robe that had been washed white and was covered in patches.
His face was deeply lined, showing his advanced age, but his eyes were very bright—seemingly peaceful, yet hiding a sharp edge.
"He really does look like a sparrow," Corleone commented.
Hearing this, Yigo curled his lip: "I don't like eating sparrows. The meat is tough."
The High Sparrow walked slowly, every step as steady as if measured.
He looked at no one, his gaze lowered as if maintaining a vow of silence.
Reaching the platform, he first turned to face the rising sun and bowed deeply, then extended his calloused palms upward in a gesture of "receiving heavenly dew."
"He sure knows how to put on a damn act."
Corleone couldn't help but mock him again.
However, everyone else was completely taken in. Following his movements, the gaze of the entire crowd fixed on the High Sparrow, gradually becoming fanatical.
Stepping onto the platform, the High Sparrow pulled a tattered parchment book from his robes. It was very old, with worn edges, but had been preserved carefully.
—the seven-pointed star.
Corleone saw it all clearly with his Insight Lv3.
He also noticed that the High Sparrow was constantly scanning the crowd, his gaze lingering a bit longer on a few specific individuals.
They were all sick.
"Brothers, sisters."
Finally, the High Sparrow spoke.
The first words were simple, but the protectors responded immediately in unison: "We are listening, High Sparrow."
Seeing this, the High Sparrow nodded slightly and practicedly opened the seven-pointed star.
"Today, we shall read from the seventh chapter of the Book of Teachings."
His voice was steady, like he was telling an ancient story: "The Father says, blessed are the hungry and thirsty, for they shall be filled."
"The Mother says, blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."
He looked up, his gaze sweeping the crowd: "Are you hungry and thirsty? Do you mourn?"
"Hungry!" someone shouted.
"Mourning!" more people responded.
"Then, you shall hear the gospel of the Seven!"
The High Sparrow closed the book, his voice suddenly rising: "For the Seven have seen your suffering!"
"The Father is judging, the Mother is weeping, and the Warrior is preparing to fight for you!"
The crowd began to stir.
Some wept, some knelt, some became hysterical.
And Corleone...
...only felt disgusted.
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)