Chapter 98 — The Seven-Day Holy Judgment
Morning.
The square before the Great Sept of Baelor.
Early autumn sunlight slanted across the white marble pavement, illuminating every vein and pattern carved into the stone.
The air still carried the dampness of night dew, mixed faintly with the briny scent drifting from the distant Blackwater Bay.
Around the square, the Gold Cloaks had already established a perimeter.
Spears in hand, faces expressionless, they maintained order.
Beyond the cordon, the crowd surged like a restless tide.
Closest to the front stood the nobles, dressed in silk and velvet. Most sheltered themselves beneath the shade of attendants, enjoying the best vantage points.
Behind them were merchants and craftsmen.
Further back, packed shoulder to shoulder, were the common people.
Many residents of Flea Bottom had come. Fishermen who lived outside the Mud Gate were there as well.
Their expressions were complicated—dirty faces filled with fear, excitement, confusion, resentment.
In the center of the square stood seven newly erected stone pillars, arranged in the shape of a seven-pointed star.
The rough granite clashed starkly with the surrounding polished marble.
Bound to the foremost pillar stood a man.
The High Sparrow.
Or rather—Marlos.
He had been stripped of his familiar ragged robe and dressed instead in undyed coarse linen, rough as a burial shroud.
His graying hair had been shaved away.
On his scalp, someone had painted a crooked seven-pointed star in red pigment.
In the morning light it looked disturbingly like a wound still bleeding.
Thick leather cords cut deeply into his wrists and ankles, securing him upright against the pillar.
His head hung low.
His lips continued to move faintly.
Those standing close enough could barely hear his murmurs.
It was the first scripture he had ever recited in his life:
"Shoes blind the eyes.
Fine robes conceal the heart.
Only bare feet touching the earth can feel the gods' pain.
Only rough cloth upon the body brings one closer to divinity…"
Once, that passage had earned him entry into the Faith.
Now, it sounded more like desperate self-hypnosis.
Or the muttering of a madman.
---
People pointed at him and whispered among themselves.
"Look… that's the High Sparrow…"
"I heard he made people drink poison."
"My cousin's child drank his medicine. His leg rotted off!"
"But… he used to give us bread…"
"That was devil's bread! People who ate it started bleeding from the stomach and died within days!"
The commoners in the back shouted angrily.
Among the nobles, however, there were occasional chuckles and idle commentary.
To them, it was like watching an exhibition.
They had never known the suffering of the lower classes.
And so watching someone punished felt… entertaining.
---
Before long, the bells rang.
Seven heavy tolls.
Each strike seemed to echo directly inside the chest.
The crowd immediately fell silent.
The great stained-glass doors of the Sept of Baelor slowly opened.
The High Septon and seven senior septons walked out in procession.
They wore ceremonial crimson-purple robes. Seven-pointed star chains gleamed at their necks.
And on their feet—
still gleaming—
were the ornate shoes of their station.
The group ascended a temporary wooden platform.
The High Septon nodded slightly toward the crowd.
Then he drew a deep breath and proclaimed in a loud voice:
"In the name of the Seven!"
"Today we convene a sacred judgment!"
His gaze swept across the square before settling on the figure bound to the pillar.
"Marlos, son of a cobbler, who calls himself the 'High Sparrow'—"
"His crimes are seven."
"First crime—Blasphemy against holy office, and the forging of false miracles."
"Second crime—Poisoning the common people, and harming women."
"Third crime—Twisting doctrine and trampling human dignity."
"Fourth crime—Illegal imprisonment and the practice of private torture."
"Fifth crime—Fraud and extortion, stealing offerings meant for the Faith."
"Sixth crime—Inciting riots and conspiring rebellion."
"Seventh crime—Claiming sanctity and attempting to seize divine authority."
With every accusation read aloud, the murmuring of the crowd intensified.
By the end, the condemnation had become a roar.
The frenzy surpassed even the fervor they once showed when intoxicated by the Sparrow's drugs.
When the noise finally subsided somewhat, the High Septon continued.
"Such actions are not mere crimes."
"They are a corruption of the very foundation of faith in the Seven."
"A poison that devours the souls of believers!"
His voice suddenly rose.
"Therefore, by unanimous decree of the Faith, this man shall suffer the highest form of punishment—"
"The Seven-Day Holy Judgment!"
---
"Seven-Day Holy Judgment?"
"What's that supposed to be?"
"Never heard of it."
The crowd began murmuring again.
The High Septon cleared his throat and explained.
"The Seven-Day Holy Judgment corresponds to the seven faces of the Seven."
"Each day, a punishment shall reflect the aspect of the god he has defiled."
"It will punish the flesh… and cleanse the soul."
He raised his voice and began to declare each day's sentence.
"Day One — The Father.
Punishment of the hand of judgment.
He issued unjust verdicts—therefore the instrument of his judgment shall be taken."
"Day Two — The Mother.
Punishment of the breast of mercy.
He twisted compassion into cruelty—therefore the source of his false mercy shall wither."
"Day Three — The Warrior.
Punishment of the feet of courage.
He defiled courage and oppressed the weak—therefore the path of his violence shall be severed."
"Day Four — The Maiden.
Punishment of the face of purity.
He corrupted innocence for selfish desire—therefore the window of his gaze shall be blinded."
"Day Five — The Smith.
Punishment of the body of labor.
He denied honest toil and stole the work of others—therefore the body that stole shall be broken."
"Day Six — The Crone.
Punishment of the lamp of wisdom.
He pretended wisdom while leading others into ignorance—therefore his false light shall be extinguished."
"Day Seven — The Stranger.
The final revelation.
He abused the fear of death and profaned life—
now he shall face the void himself."
Each time a day's sentence was proclaimed, a wave of shocked gasps rippled through the crowd.
The punishments alone sounded terrifying—cruel in ways heavy with religious symbolism.
Among the nobles, whispers spread as they leaned toward one another to comment. The common folk mostly looked frightened; some even began quietly tracing the seven-pointed star across their chests.
Amid the uproar, the fat High Septon finally raised his voice again.
"Should this man repent sincerely within these seven days—endure the sacred judgment and cleanse his sins—"
"And if, by the seventh day, he still retains a single breath of life…"
"Then it shall be proof that his heart may yet be redeemed, and his sins forgiven!"
"This is the single thread of mercy within the Seven's boundless severity!"
When the proclamation ended, the square fell into silence.
Every gaze turned toward the High Sparrow bound to the pillar.
And then—
The man who had been muttering with his head lowered suddenly lifted his face.
A twisted smile of absolute fanaticism spread across it.
He burst into laughter.
"Ha… hahaha! Good! The Seven-Day Judgment!"
"This is clearly the final trial granted to me by the Seven—the final seven steps toward sanctity!"
His bloodshot eyes widened, blazing with feverish light as he swept his gaze across the crowd.
"Do you see it?!"
"This is the path of the chosen! The saints of old endured such trials as well!"
"This is my glory—my crown!"
Straining against the ropes, he tried to straighten his bound body and shouted toward the sky:
"Born in sin! The mortal world is a prison!"
"I will use my flesh and blood to atone for all of you!"
"I will prove that a true chosen of the gods fears no torture of this world!"
"The Seven stand with me!"
"Seven days from now you will witness the rebirth of a saint—stronger and purer than ever!"
His hysterical proclamation echoed through the square.
The display unsettled many.
Some former followers even began to waver.
After all…
If he really survived the seven days—
Would that not be a true miracle?
---
Standing on a slightly elevated step at the edge of the crowd, Odin watched the spectacle silently.
His face showed no expression.
"Madman," the Dothraki warrior beside him spat contemptuously.
"In the Dothraki Sea I kill dozens like him every year."
"Not entirely," Odin said, shaking his head.
"He's still calculating… still laying groundwork."
"If he truly survives these seven days—even with only a breath left—then today's suffering will become the greatest proof of his holiness."
"His reputation will soar without limit."
"He'll become a legend in King's Landing… perhaps even across the Seven Kingdoms."
"People will tell stories of how he endured the punishments of the Seven and did not fall."
He paused.
"His obsession with power has surpassed fear. It's even beyond reason now. It's instinct."
"Unfortunately…"
"Unfortunately what?" Iggo asked.
"Unfortunately, surviving the seven punishments I personally designed requires more than an iron will."
Odin raised an eyebrow as the executioners stepped forward.
"It also requires an iron body."
---
Under the watch of thousands, the first punishment began.
The Hand of Judgment.
The executioner took a thin needle and carefully drove it into the tip of the High Sparrow's right middle finger.
"AAAAAH—!!!"
The scream tore through the square.
It shattered every trace of the fanatic zeal he had just displayed.
The agony in that cry was raw—pure, primal.
Everyone who heard it felt a chill run down their spine.
The High Sparrow's body jerked violently upward before the leather ropes snapped him back.
His head flew backward.
Veins bulged across his neck.
His eyes bulged so far they looked ready to burst.
The grand speeches about divine trials suddenly seemed absurd before the sheer reality of physical pain.
From the distant steps, Odin sighed softly and turned away.
"No need to watch."
He spoke calmly to Iggo.
"He won't last."
"The first day he might endure through madness and adrenaline."
"But from the second day onward—"
"Dehydration. Blood loss. Infection. All those debuffs stacking together…"
"Madness won't save him."
"Faith won't save him."
"He's just a man who thinks he's special."
"And the human body has limits."
He paused thoughtfully.
"Unless he converts to the Lord of Light right now… then maybe he'd have a chance."
Iggo grinned.
"At that point he might as well stop being human."
---
Odin's prediction proved accurate.
Day One — Evening
After all five fingers had been destroyed and melted honey poured over the wounds, the High Sparrow was still preaching through clenched teeth.
"Look… this is the trial…"
"My blood… for you… redemption…"
"Everyone… redeemed…"
Day Two — The Mother's Day
A corrosive paste of wormwood and salt crystals was spread across his chest and abdomen.
Then rough cloth soaked in wine was wrapped tightly around him.
He could only wheeze hoarsely.
No full sentences remained.
Day Three — The Warrior's Day
A heavy hammer slowly crushed both ankle bones and the arches of his feet.
Even his screams faded.
His body convulsed uncontrollably.
His eyes rolled white.
He lost control of his bowels.
The smell filled the air.
Day Four — The Maiden's Day
When the executioner smeared the foul mixture across his face—
He barely reacted.
That evening, when they returned him to the iron cage, the guards discovered his body had already gone cold.
The High Sparrow was dead.
He died during the punishment of "The Maiden's Face."
He never completed his seven-day trial.
On the morning of the fifth day his corpse was hastily disposed of.
Rumor said it was thrown into the sea.
The square was thoroughly washed.
The seven pillars were removed.
Soon it looked as if nothing had ever happened.
Only the memories of those who had watched—and the fragments of stories whispered through the streets—remained.
A madman had once dreamed of climbing to heaven.
And had died falling down the steps.
---
Day Five
Morning.
The House of Order.
The scent of baked bread and herbal porridge filled the air.
Odin sat by the window enjoying a simple breakfast.
Boiled eggs.
Bacon.
Roasted mushrooms.
And a cup of hot goat's milk sweetened with honey.
Outside, the streets of Flea Bottom looked cleaner than before.
The usual stench had disappeared.
The line for the soup kitchen was orderly now.
Construction on the House of Order was nearly finished.
Soon everyone here would receive real jobs—enough to support themselves without relying on charity.
Not far away, Brienne was instructing several young men in basic sword drills.
Her sharp voice carried clearly across the yard.
At first the boys had refused to accept a woman as their teacher.
That changed after Brienne smashed a training post apart with a single punch.
Iggo leaned against the doorway sharpening his short sword.
His eyes remained fixed on the tall woman, as if he had already imagined having children with her.
Everything felt calm.
Orderly.
Slowly, steadily alive.
Odin liked this feeling.
---
Footsteps approached the doorway.
Unhurried.
Odin didn't look up until they stopped beside his table.
White armor.
White cloak.
Golden hair streaked faintly with gray.
A handsome face… though slightly worn with fatigue.
"Hey, Jaime!"
Recognizing him, Odin stood and embraced him enthusiastically, clapping a hand against the knight's armored back.
Feeling that warmth eased much of Jaime's gloom.
He had returned to King's Landing more than half a month ago.
But Cersei still refused to let him touch her.
At least here, with Odin, he felt some small comfort.
"Odin," Jaime said hoarsely.
He placed both hands on Odin's shoulders.
After a moment's hesitation, he spoke.
"Cersei wants to see you."
Cersei?
The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister?
Odin raised an eyebrow.
Why would she want to see him?
A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind.
Had she somehow discovered his never-before-revealed [Bed Techniques Lv3]?
Who leaked the information?!
But even if she wanted to test his… extraordinary abilities…
Did she really need to send Jaime to invite him?
Unless the Queen Regent liked that sort of arrangement…
Seeing the strange look on his face, Jaime quickly stepped forward and lowered his voice.
"The King in the North… Robb Stark."
He paused.
"…is dead."