In the gray chill of early dawn, just as the first sliver of the sun touched the horizon, the High Sparrow prepared for his morning prayers. He was startled to find Brother Trick standing before his tent.
"Brother Trick?" the old man asked, his voice raspy from a night of preaching. "Theodore told me you wouldn't return for several days. Has the wind shifted?"
Trick bowed his head. "After Theodore left last night, I sat with the Light. If you have decided to remain in this nest of vipers to save the smallfolk, and the Lightbringer has returned to the monastery to drill his host, then we must weave a thread between you. A line for coin, grain, and whispers. It would benefit both ends of the Dawn."
The High Sparrow considered this, his bare feet shifting in the cold dirt. "True. If Aldric understands the pulse of the capital, his choices will be forged in clarity. Do you have a plan for this 'thread'?"
"I am but a veteran," Trick said humbly. "But I spent years guarding caravans between Riverrun and Acorn Hall. My masters kept waystations along the road—places to trade wool, but also to trade secrets."
"Waystations..." The High Sparrow paced the small confines of his tent. "A merchant's game is too costly for us. We have no partners among the guilds, and the coin required to rent warehouses and organize real cargo would bleed us dry. However... we have the Septs."
Trick frowned. "The Septs? On my ride south, the roadside shrines were hollow. The friars had fled the Mummers or been put to the sword."
"A shell may be empty, but the spirit remains," the High Sparrow explained. "Many of the brothers who followed me to the city were driven from those very shrines. Some have already accepted the Way of Light. Take them with you when you depart. Let them reclaim the ruins along the Kingsroad and the river-paths. A beggar or a wandering monk draws no suspicion from a Lannister outrider."
Trick realized the wisdom, but also the weight of the risk. "If the war turns again, they will be the first to bleed. It may be safer to rely on simple messengers for now."
"So be it," the High Sparrow sighed, conceding the point. "Now, the business of the day is done. Will you help us mend the broken?"
Trick did not refuse. Healing was the heartbeat of a Sunwalker. But remembering Theodore's warning about remaining invisible, he asked, "Are there... constraints on how I work?"
The High Sparrow smiled, pleased by the caution. "I will give you a satchel of common herbs. Apply them to the wound, then use the smallest pulse of Solar Grace possible. Let the recovery look like the slow work of nature, not the sudden flash of a spell."
They moved to a massive, sagging pavilion in the center of the plaza. Outside, a line of coughing, groaning wretches snaked across the cobblestones, waiting for the touch of the Light.
"Every day?" Trick asked, staring at the sheer volume of misery.
"Every day," the High Sparrow replied. "By nightfall, our mana is spent to the dregs. We wake, and we begin again. Winter-fever, rot, the bloody flux—they hunt the refugees like wolves. But the greatest sickness is hunger. The 'medicine' this camp consumes most is flour. Half these people aren't ill; they are simply empty."
He pointed to a row of black iron kettles. "We boil until the wood runs out, just to keep the city from erupting in a riot of the starving. I beg from the rich to feed the poor, while the high lords in the Great Sept look down their noses and call me a nuisance." He sighed, looking at the towering marble spires above. "Without the flock, what use is the Sept? The Church has become a gilded pet of the Crown."
As the sun climbed, the crowds swelled. The two men sat on low stools and began the work.
The process was a ritual of humility. A refugee would enter, drop to one knee, and kiss the High Sparrow's hand before offering a "fee": a bundle of sticks, a cup of grain, a dead rat for the kettles, or a jar of clean water. After the gift was taken, the patient would close their eyes, and the Sunwalker would deliver the muted pulse of Light.
If they recovered, it was a miracle; if not, they were told to return the next day. It was a strategy of patience—using time to spread the healing across more souls.
By mid-afternoon, Caden appeared at the edge of the pavilion.
"Is the work finished?" Trick asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"For now," Caden replied. "Master Mott has promised to find a buyer. He has deep roots in this city. If he talks, the gold will follow."
Trick gestured to the two friars remaining in the tent—Brother Lucian and Brother Mark. "Take Caden to meet the old man," he told them. "He joined us after the Conclave; he needs to see the heart of the city's Sparrows."
They found the High Sparrow on a crude wooden stage in the plaza, preaching to a sea of rags. His message was conservative, stressing the ancient laws of the Seven-Pointed Star, but with a radical edge: the Faith must hold authority over the mortal world to ensure the heavens' justice.
After the introductions, the High Sparrow asked with a twinkle in his eye, "Does my word seem too timid for a warrior of the Golden Dawn?"
Caden shook his head. "We understand the cage you sit in, Father."
"Timid to a Sunwalker, perhaps," the old man sighed, "but to the High Septon, I am a heretic. Only the Archbishop Rayard shows us any sympathy. The others loathe us. If it weren't for the fact that they have no soldiers, and Theodore's boys have sharp axes, we wouldn't even be allowed to stand on these stones."
"Then why stay?" Trick asked. "The Gods Eye is vast. We can absorb your people into the Alliance. It's better than breathing the stench of this city."
"No," the High Sparrow said firmly. "Not yet. These people followed me because they still believe the Church can be saved. The Lannisters and Tyrells have just arrived; they haven't begun to rule. When the peace fails to fill their bellies, when they see the Great Sept remains closed to their suffering, then they will see the truth. Then, they will truly be ours."
"And if the Queen feeds them?"
"Then there is still a soul in the Red Keep," the old man countered. "And we shall show that soul the power of Anshe. But I doubt it. I saw them during the siege; they let the poor burn while they drank Arbor gold. I have no hope for them."
He looked toward the castle. "I will stay until the King weds the Tyrell girl. After the feasts are done and the gold is spent, I will lead my Sparrows back to St. Maur's. That will be the time to move."
A few days later, Jack—the apprentice of Tobho Mott—found Caden in the camp. The boy looked ill at ease, his nose wrinkled at the smell of waste and unwashed bodies. He flinched as Caden emerged from a tent filled with hacking refugees.
"Ser Caden... do you have the blade?"
"Wildflower?" Caden slapped the hilt at his hip. "I don't let it out of my sight. Has your master found his buyer?"
Jack nodded urgently. "The buyer is here. You must come at once."
Caden frowned. "Such a rush? It's barely noon." A flicker of suspicion crossed his mind—was this a trap?
"Wait here. I need my cloak," Caden said. He ducked back in, signaling Jasmine, Morton, and Hobart. The four of them followed Jack through the winding streets to the Street of Steel.
When they reached Mott's shop, Caden's breath hitched. A squad of heavy cavalry stood in the street, guarding a banner of a golden rose on a field of green.
Caden looked at Jack, his expression darkening. "The Tyrells? You invited the Lords of Highgarden to buy my steel? Why wasn't I told?"
Jack offered a weak, nervous smile. "They came without warning, Ser. Master Mott had no choice. Please—don't keep them waiting."
Caden adjusted his brigandine. He was a knight of the Dawn, but in the presence of the Rose, he felt the old weight of his low birth. He signaled his men to stay sharp and walked into the lion's—or rather, the flower's—den.
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