Chapter 92: Sin
"Seeds need soil to grow. Grace requires faith to receive it."
The High Sparrow swept his gaze across the crowd, nodded in satisfaction, then pointed toward a one-armed enforcer standing in the inner circle.
"Look at our brother Joseph."
"Three months ago, he was caught stealing and had his hand chopped off. The wound festered. Fever burned him. Maggots laid eggs in the rotting flesh. Even stray dogs wouldn't come near him."
"He could only lie in Flea Bottom, waiting to die."
"But he crawled—two full streets—until he reached the dignity of the gods."
"He prayed with true devotion. He accepted the trials bestowed by the Seven to cleanse his sins. He drank the holy broth. He was anointed with sacred oil."
"And now—"
The High Sparrow spread his hands dramatically.
"—though he has lost one arm, he has gained something far more precious."
"An untainted soul, cleansed and at peace, worthy to hear the gospel of the Seven!"
As his words fell, the man named Joseph straightened his back. He raised his mutilated arm stump toward the sky, his smile stretching into something almost grotesquely blissful.
"…Impossible."
Odin muttered under his breath, analyzing coldly.
"Even I couldn't save someone with a wound already infected, suppurating, and febrile—unless that person happened to be Jaime Lannister."
But the High Sparrow did not stop there.
He turned and pointed toward a kneeling old woman in the middle ring.
"And our sister Martha."
"She lay in bed coughing blood for half a year. The healers said it was consumption—incurable."
"But she did not abandon her faith."
"She came every day to hear the holy words. She was soaked by rain, scorched by the sun until her skin peeled—yet she did not leave."
"At last, the Seven saw her devotion. They forgave her sins."
"And bestowed upon her the grace of healing!"
At her name, the old woman threw herself forward, bowing again and again, her forehead striking the stone with dull thuds.
Soon she was helped back up by those beside her, tears streaming down her face as she babbled incoherent words of gratitude.
The crowd erupted.
People cried out.
Many dropped to their knees.
Prayers rose in a fevered chorus.
But Odin narrowed his eyes.
Something was wrong.
The woman's breathing was steady—slightly rapid, perhaps, but otherwise normal. Nothing like the fragile, hollow-chested breathing of someone who had truly suffered from consumption.
Her cheeks were flushed with an unhealthy redness. Her fingers trembled faintly.
It looked less like recovery—
—and more like a drug taking effect.
A plant, Odin concluded instantly.
A planted witness.
Though, to be fair, her name was well chosen. In another universe—one filled with musclebound men wearing their underwear over their pants—just shouting "Martha" might be enough to save the world.
"So, brothers. Sisters."
Seeing the crowd's anticipation reach its peak, the High Sparrow spread his arms wide, his voice swelling with conviction.
"Do you ask why you were born poor? Sick? Trampled underfoot?"
"Then ask yourselves—are you devout enough?"
"Ask whether your hearts are as pure as the glass candles before the Seven!"
"Suffering is the furnace. Faith is the hammer!"
"Only a soul tempered through endless trials can be forged into a vessel worthy of divine grace!"
"Tell me—does your faith endure the test?"
"It does!"
"It does!"
"It does!"
The cries echoed back at him.
Weeping, shouting, chanting—voices layered atop one another.
A collective frenzy spread through the square, infectious as plague.
At that moment, Iggo spoke coldly beside Odin.
"This man should have his head cut off. Then his eyes and ears gouged out. His tongue removed."
Among the Dothraki, there was nothing more despised than this sort of false sorcery.
They believed that if a wicked spellcaster died with his head and senses intact, his spirit could still use magic to take revenge in the afterlife.
But if you cut off the head, gouge out the eyes, deafen the ears, and tear out the tongue—
then he can no longer see, hear, or speak.
Even his soul will be crippled, unable to harm anyone ever again.
Listening to this blunt, savage logic, Odin merely observed in silence, offering no comment.
As the atmosphere grew hotter, the High Sparrow gave a subtle nod to one of the enforcers beside the platform.
The man immediately turned and wheeled out a small wooden cart from behind the stage.
On it sat two large barrels, their mouths covered with cloth.
Though no one could yet see what was inside, every gaze snapped toward them instantly—
those burning stares looked hot enough to bore holes through the wood.
"Now,"
the High Sparrow's voice rang out once more,
"prove your devotion through action, brothers and sisters."
"Repeat after me—"
He raised the Seven-Pointed Star and began to chant:
"Born in sin, the world our prison.
Suffering tempers, trials refine.
Faith redeems, washes away filth.
Doubt betrays, and burns forever.
The Seven behold, grace falls like rain.
I pity the world, for suffering is vast
Kneel and receive—only then be freed."
The crowd followed.
What began as scattered voices gradually aligned—
louder, more unified, more frenzied.
Odin watched the mass hypnosis with cold detachment.
If anything, he felt an urge to laugh.
Whether this scripture was invented by the High Sparrow or not, its meaning was painfully clear:
you are born guilty, suffering is proof, faith redeems, doubt condemns.
But honestly—
It wasn't even well written.
"Awkward as hell," Odin muttered under his breath.
"At least 'I pity the world, for suffering is vast' has some poetry."
After about a quarter hour, the High Sparrow raised his hand.
The chanting stopped instantly.
"The Seven have heard your voices."
A smile finally appeared on his face.
It was faint, tinged with false compassion—
yet somehow deeply unsettling.
"Now," he continued softly,
"let us share in the blessings of the Seven."
The cloths were pulled from the barrels.
Only then did Odin see clearly:
one barrel held chunks of black bread, unevenly cut;
the other brimmed with dark brown broth, steaming gently.
Distribution began.
The enforcers maintained order as people lined up.
Each person had to bow before the High Sparrow and say,
"Thank you for the Seven's grace."
Then, after a brief exchange between the enforcer and the assistant, the amount of "blessing" was decided.
Everyone received bread—devout or not.
But how loudly and earnestly they had prayed determined how large their portion was.
Those who dared glance at the barrel of broth were immediately shouted down and driven away—
only the "truly repentant" were worthy of that gift.
The first to receive the broth was the old woman, Martha.
She nearly snatched the wooden bowl, drinking the brown liquid in one gulp.
Seconds later, the tension drained from her face.
A vacant, blissful smile crept onto her lips.
She staggered back into the crowd, eyes unfocused,
as though she had already left this suffering world behind—
having truly been "redeemed."
Then, one by one, others followed.
Odin counted.
Analyzed.
Calculated.
The number receiving broth was far fewer than what Rorge had reported earlier.
Short on ingredients?
Or short on money?
The line advanced.
Then it was a woman's turn.
She was around thirty, worn down but unmistakably beautiful.
In her arms she held a girl of five or six, pale and feverish—clearly gravely ill.
Instead of grabbing bread like the others, the woman suddenly dropped to her knees before the platform.
"Please save my daughter, holy brother!" she cried.
"She's had a fever for three days—several maesters couldn't help her! I was told the Seven's servant is here—"
"I am no lord, sister."
The High Sparrow interrupted gently, opening his half-closed eyes.
But instead of tending to the child, he studied the woman carefully—
his gaze settling on her clothes.
"Your clothing," he said calmly,
"is of fine material."
"The poor sisters of Flea Bottom cannot afford such fabric."
The woman froze.
She looked up helplessly.
The High Sparrow continued, voice unhurried:
"You are a whore."
Not a question.
A verdict.
All eyes turned toward her.
Some women stared with open contempt—
yet their eyes flickered with secret envy at her clothes.
Many men looked her over without restraint, uninterested in the fabric, imagining what lay beneath it.
Pity?
Almost none.
Under the weight of countless stares, the woman trembled and finally lowered her head.
"…Yes."
"Shame!"
The assistant beside the Sparrow suddenly shouted.
"Selling your body for gold!
Using god-given flesh for blasphemy!"
"Every transaction adds another sin!"
"Shame!"
"Whore!"
"Get out!"
The crowd erupted.
People finally found a target for their misery, unleashing it without restraint upon the "unclean" woman.
"I—I needed money!" she sobbed desperately.
"My husband is dead! My daughter needs food!"
"So you fed her with sin?" the assistant snapped, pointing at the child.
"Look at her!"
"This is retribution.
The Seven do not bless children raised on filthy coin!"
The logic stuck.
The crowd roared again.
At last, they had a reason for the child's illness—
her mother's "sins."
Only Odin watched the girl herself.
Rapid breathing.
Visible chest retractions.
Classic severe respiratory infection—likely pneumonia.
In a world without antibiotics, mortality exceeded sixty percent.
But no one wanted reason.
They preferred punishment.
"Get out!"
"We don't shelter whores!"
"Your sins have tainted her soul!"
The woman cried, shoulders shaking violently.
She did not argue.
She only clutched the child tighter—
the one pure thing she had left, now declared "contaminated."
"The Seven… are merciful."
Just as the condemnation peaked, the High Sparrow spoke.
Silence fell instantly.
He stepped forward, gently placing a hand on the woman's head, his face glowing with sanctity.
"Disease is merely the surface," he said softly.
"The true sickness lies in your corruption—
in the filth carried by her blood."
"But…"
"If you truly repent, if you accept purification—
grace may yet descend."
Hope ignited in the woman's eyes.
"I repent!" she cried.
"I'll do anything—anything—just let my little Lysa get better!"
The assistant's lips curled upward for a fleeting moment.
Almost no one noticed.
But one person did.
"Then prove your devotion,"
the High Sparrow said gently, patting her head.
"Before the Seven… and before all your brothers and sisters."
"Confess your sins."
"Completely."
"Without holding anything back."