The gates of King's Landing slowly opened before Renly's army.
Riding beside him, Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove said, "Your Grace, that is Joffrey's head. Your plan has worked—the starving citizens overthrew the Lannisters and opened the gates for us."
Everyone could see it: Joffrey's severed head, hanging high above the Gate of the Gods. Too many lords recognized his face for it to be a trick.
Renly took in the sight and raised his voice. "Advance through the gates! Seize the Red Keep! Capture Cersei and the rest of the bastards!"
The knights and soldiers of the Stormlands and the Reach, their armor clanging, marched in disciplined ranks through the gates.
But as Renly's forces entered King's Landing, what awaited them was not victory—it was death.
The streets were littered with corpses. In doorways, under arches, even in the middle of the road lay countless shriveled bodies.
Skin clung to bone, eyes sunken into hollow skulls, flesh stained a bluish gray.
Flies buzzed thick in the air, the stench of decay choking the breath. The city had become a vast graveyard.
Renly's triumphant expression froze.
He pulled back on the reins, scanning the lifeless streets in silence.
"The gods have mercy…" murmured Bryce Caron, Lord of Nightsong and one of the Rainbow Guard. "Your Grace, these people—they starved. The Lannisters killed them through hunger."
Renly drew in a sharp breath. "Send word—distribute our rations to the starving, at once."
Officers spurred their horses to the rear ranks, shouting the order hoarsely as they rode.
Ser Emmon "the Yellow" frowned and said, "Your Grace, these wretches can hardly stand. It wasn't they who executed Joffrey. Whoever opened the gates for us refuses to come forward."
Renly's tone was calm, but his eyes had hardened. "Then we'll find them ourselves."
Those nearby—his Rainbow Guard among them—understood at once that the king's patience had run out.
The army advanced slowly, horses stepping carefully among the bodies.
The soldiers' faces were pale; their eyes darted away, avoiding the corpses underfoot.
Before long, their column reached the top of Visenya's Hill.
The seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor rose ahead, gleaming faintly beneath the gray sky.
Before the Sept stretched a vast circular plaza, filled to the brim with a dark, motionless crowd that blocked the road leading to the Red Keep.
They were mostly common folk—thin, ragged, hollow-eyed.
At the head of the mass stood a single man.
He wore a filthy septon's robe, his bare feet caked in grime. Gray hair and a tangled beard hung around his face, hiding all but his eyes—eyes that glimmered with a strange, burning light.
It was the light of fanatic devotion.
Renly frowned, irritation flashing briefly before he forced a smile.
He urged his horse forward a few paces, stopping ten steps from the crowd, and called out clearly:
"Faithful followers, the suffering of King's Landing is at an end. I, Renly Baratheon, rightful heir of King Robert—your king—have brought food and order. Where is the High Septon? Step forth, and before this Sept, under the light of the Seven, bear witness as I cleanse this city of Lannister corruption and restore the realm to the path the gods have chosen."
The crowd stayed silent. Only the sound of the wind tugging at their tattered robes broke the stillness.
Then, after a long, heavy pause, the barefoot, grimy septon stepped forward, one slow step at a time.
"I am the High Septon."
The Great Sparrow's voice was hoarse and low.
He paused, his gaze locking on Renly atop his horse, and a faint smile curved his lips. "But you, Renly Baratheon, are not the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the knights and lords behind Renly. Hands flew to sword hilts; several drew their blades outright, faces hard with anger.
Renly's fury ignited. He had fought tooth and nail to take King's Landing—only to be insulted by a ragged priest who had appeared from nowhere. He had come here to be crowned king.
His voice turned cold. "And you are no High Septon! You blasphemous zealot—you dare impersonate the High Septon, twisting faith and deceiving fools! Look at your robes. You look like a filthy beggar!"
The Great Sparrow's smile only widened, almost pitying as he looked upon Renly's rage.
"You may kill me, Your Grace. You may slay every devout soul here—spill our blood across this holy square with your sword and your power. But remember, the gods are watching. The gods will not forgive your sins, just as they did not forgive that child-king hanging from the city gate. Renly Baratheon, you have no claim to the Iron Throne. Under the eyes of the Seven, this truth stands—and it will never be blessed by them."
"My sins?"
Renly laughed, the sound edged with scorn. "My crime is bringing food, bringing order, ending the suffering the Lannisters caused—and you dare stand in my way with your hollow sermons and hypocrisy?!"
He slashed a hand through the air, pointing at the Great Sparrow and the crowd behind him. "Seize this imposter who dares call himself High Septon! Arrest them all! Any who resist—kill them!"
The sound of steel rang out as countless knights of the Reach and Stormlands drew their swords in unison.
Their warhorses, sensing bloodlust, pawed the ground and snorted clouds of white breath.
The crowd finally broke into chaos.
Before the glint of swords and the looming horses, terror swallowed faith. Some screamed. Others turned and pushed, desperate to flee.
Yet many more, under the steady gaze of the Great Sparrow, straightened their backs and faced the oncoming blades with the calm of martyrs.
"For the Seven Gods!"
"Father, have mercy!"
The cries rose just as the knights spurred their mounts forward, charging into the throng.
Blades flashed. Hooves crushed. Flesh tore.
Wet slashes split the air, followed by screams and pleas.
Blood sprayed across the pale stone, pooling into crimson streams that ran between the cracks. Severed limbs and mangled bodies were trampled underfoot.
The faithful, clad in tattered septon robes, fell in clusters, lips still moving in broken prayers as they died.
The knights' faces were hard and cold, their swords cutting through flesh again and again, each swing painting the air red.
The square had become a charnel ground beneath the gaze of the Sept's seven crystal towers.
Renly sat high in his saddle, watching it all with a face of stone. There was no pity—only cold certainty.
Anyone who dared defy him would share the same fate.
The Great Sparrow did not run. He did not fight.
He stood unmoving as blood splattered his filthy robe. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently in what seemed to be a final prayer.
Two soldiers rushed forward, fierce as wolves. They twisted his arms behind him and bound them tightly with rough rope.
Dragged through the blood-soaked square, his frail body staggered, yet his eyes opened again—burning with the same fanatical light. Through the chaos, he met Renly's gaze, and in that stare was no fear—only conviction.
When the last scream faded, Renly surveyed the square, littered with the dead and drenched in blood.
He gave a curt nod. "Clean this place. Lock that madman in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. Let him see if his gods can save him from there."
He turned his horse, voice sharp. "To the Red Keep. Now."