Dusk painted the Great Sept's spires in blood.
Aldric followed the High Sparrow through the cloisters, around the final corner, and there stood the Warrior's statue—white marble gleaming cold in the dying light, the greatsword in its grip seeming poised to fall.
Four richly dressed nobles already waited.
Randyll Tarly's dark velvet doublet gleamed faint blue in the twilight. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed, impatience plain on his face. Loras Tyrell kept touching the hilt of his sword, his handsome features tight with anxiety. Fat Lord Swyft dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, his round belly heaving with every breath. Maester Pycelle leaned on his gilded cane, his cloudy eyes darting toward the High Sparrow.
Theodore Wells stood to one side, expressionless, the holy emblem on his armor glinting in the faint light.
"Your Holiness!" The four men bowed simultaneously, hands over their chests, their voices carrying different emotions. Randyll's was low and grave. Loras's was urgent and pleading. Swyft's held a flattering tremor. Pycelle's was old and hoarse.
The High Sparrow inclined his head. His plain hemp robe stood in stark contrast to the nobles' finery. "Lord Randyll, Lord Loras, Lord Swyft, Maester Pycelle—you come together, almost carrying the entire Small Council here."
"Yes, Your Holiness." Swyft stepped forward, his face full of fawning smiles. "King Tommen cannot rule. The Queen Regent and the Queen are arrested. The Hand of the King and the Master of Ships have fled. The court has fallen into chaos. Your Holiness, have pity on the smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms. They cannot be without the Queen Regent and the Queen's governance." His fat chin wobbled as he spoke. His eyes were frantic.
The High Sparrow shook his head gently. His gaze was calm and deep, impossible to read. "Let us find a place to sit and speak."
They walked toward the main tower. It rose into the clouds, its stone steps cool and damp. The torches on the walls flickered, casting shifting shadows over the company. Footsteps echoed in the empty space. The atmosphere grew heavier.
The seven-sided meeting room on the fourth floor was dimly lit. A few oil lamps burned weakly, throwing shadows against the walls. Faded religious murals hung on the walls, the eyes of the gods seeming to watch every person in the room. A seven-sided table stood in the center, bearing a simple tea set and a roll of parchment. Each chose a side and sat, filling the table.
No sooner had they settled than Loras leaned forward, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "Your Holiness, my sister's crimes must be a frame-up. She is a good girl who follows the teachings of the Seven. She would never commit those foolish acts she is accused of!" Anger and grievance filled his eyes. His voice trembled with emotion.
"Lord Loras," the High Sparrow said, frowning, his expression solemn and grave, "I had Brother Moller examine Her Grace the Queen. Her maidenhead is indeed broken. Septa Alantyn and Septa Mesent can attest to this. Septa Nysterica, who serves Margaery, has confessed—she is now in a penance cell doing her repentance. We also examined Lady Megga and Lady Alla. They, too, are no longer maidens. And as I understand it, Maester Pycelle once testified that he provided moon tea to Queen Margaery—many times, in fact." His gaze struck Pycelle like a blade.
Maester Pycelle was nearly twenty years older than the High Sparrow. He trembled as he pinched his sleeve to wipe the fine sweat from his forehead. His cloudy eyes shifted. His aged hands shook, making one fear he might collapse at any moment.
Under the weight of the company's stares, he found his voice with difficulty. "That is true. But the young queen is a very kind girl. Perhaps that moon tea was prepared for her cousins, Lady Megga and Lady Alla. After all, as the royal maester, Lady Megga and Lady Alla could not command me directly, and they had no other trustworthy maester to turn to." His voice trailed off, lacking conviction.
The meeting room fell into dead silence. The air seemed to freeze.
Pycelle pressed on. "As for maidenhood, research at the Citadel has long proven that strenuous activity—such as riding or dancing—can easily rupture the hymen. This is especially true for delicate noble girls like Queen Margaery—"
Aldric snorted. He leaned back in his chair, lips curling, eyes full of mockery.
"What are you laughing at?" Loras shot to his feet, glaring at Aldric, his face reddening, his hand already on his sword hilt.
"Forgive me. I thought of something amusing." Aldric waved a hand, the smile still lingering on his face. "Apologies. Please continue."
"Your Holiness, has the Faith fallen so low that you allow a mercenary with no respect for noblewomen to mock the Queen in public? Order him to leave." Loras's voice was furious, his chest heaving.
The High Sparrow looked at Loras with puzzlement, his tone calm. "This is no ill-bred mercenary. He is the leader of the Faith's third knightly order, the Order of the Golden Dawn. Aldric the Lightbringer. If Lord Randyll has mentioned it to you, you should know that the two thousand men outside the city were brought here from the Riverlands."
"Yes." Randyll pressed Loras's hand, making him sit again. "I met the Lightbringer before entering the city—his army is indeed impressive. But Your Holiness. Regardless, from Maester Pycelle's testimony, there is no conclusive evidence that Queen Margaery actually committed adultery."
The High Septon pointed out: "But Queen Cersei did provide a list of ten men accused of having relations with Queen Margaery."
Lord Harys Swyft spoke, his face full of worry. "The Redwyne brothers have been proven innocent. Aside from Osney Kettleblack and a singer called the Blue Bard, the rest are under the control of Qyburn, who is loyal to the Queen. That monster—I would not trust a single word of any confession he extracts."
"Then—a trial by combat seems the only way." The High Sparrow looked troubled. He sighed softly, his eyes full of helplessness. "Lord Randyll, you understand. The matter of Queen Margaery has spread throughout King's Landing. I cannot release her without a trial. That would be a terrible offense against the gods."
Loras rose again, his voice loud. "My sister swore a sacred oath of chastity—not only to the Queen Regent, but also before the late father of Her Grace the Queen, with many witnesses. Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna also gave their joint guarantee. Their words should not be doubted. Now that this has happened, Your Holiness, are you saying these lords deliberately deceived His Grace?" His voice echoed in the room.
"Perhaps they were deceived as well, my lord," the High Sparrow said. "Perhaps the Queen is truly innocent. But regardless, the trial must proceed."
"Margaery is my sister and my queen. As a Kingsguard, I will serve as her champion." Loras spoke with determination, straightening his back, his eyes full of resolve.
Though he had put on some weight since returning from Dragonstone—looking stronger—he was not the best choice for single combat. He had performed well in tournaments and the Battle of the Blackwater, but as the third son of Mace Tyrell, he had little experience of life-or-death battles. And trial by combat was usually to the death.
The High Sparrow nodded. "Of course. But to judge a queen in the name of the gods is a great matter. It cannot be held so hastily. Her Grace is currently in the care of the septas, devoutly repenting. I believe that if she is truly innocent, no matter how long it takes, she will eventually be cleared."
"May I see her?" Loras pressed, hope in his eyes.
"Forgive me, Lord Loras. Her Grace is not fit to receive visitors. Her prayers to the gods have not yet been answered. Your presence would only weaken her spirit." The High Sparrow refused, his tone unyielding.
"Listen," Lord Randyll said impatiently, his expression cold, his eyes carrying a threat, "even the darkest dungeons of the Red Keep would allow a prisoner's family to visit. We must ensure Her Grace's health. Your Holiness, if something happens to the Queen while she is in your custody, how will you answer to the King, to Lord Mace? As devout followers of the Seven, we are willing to respect the Faith's authority. But the smallfolk who have benefited from the Queen's kindness may not choose the same. If they are stirred up by those with ill intent to do something rash, that would hardly be a happy outcome for the Faith, would it?"
"If I understand correctly, Lord Randyll, are you threatening the Faith?" Theodore Wells spoke, his voice cold and firm. "The day we joined the Warrior's Sons, we put aside our personal honor and lives. You know how much effort House Targaryen spent to suppress the Faith's military orders. I do not believe House Tyrell has any dragons."
The High Sparrow did not rebuke. He simply turned the seven-sided brass ring on his finger, his expression calm, unreadable. Silence blanketed the meeting room. The tension was suffocating.
"Your Holiness," Maester Pycelle broke the silence, "I understand that since your elevation, you have continued distributing grain to the city's poor. Tell me, has the grain supply been adequate lately?"
"Barely enough to keep alive the children who lost their parents in the war, and the old people who lost their children. But only just barely—may the gods have mercy." The High Sparrow traced a seven-pointed star over his chest, pity in his eyes.
Pycelle threw a glance at Loras. Loras understood. "Your Holiness, I am willing to sponsor your charity. As you know, of all the Seven Kingdoms, the Reach produces the most grain." His words carried a flattering tone, but his voice was still cold and stiff.
The High Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "That is wonderful. The gods will surely reward House Tyrell's generosity."
"And my sister?" Loras pressed.
The High Sparrow exchanged a glance with Theodore and Aldric. "As the Queen's brother, if you and Lord Randyll are willing to swear a sacred oath before the gods, guaranteeing that Queen Margaery and her champion will appear at the trial on time, I believe the gods would be pleased to see House Tyrell's charity fulfilled."
Randyll Tarly and Loras Tyrell exchanged a look. They nodded together. "We are willing to swear a sacred oath."
So the High Sparrow led them before the statue of the Father. It stood tall and majestic, its gaze solemn and holy.
Lord Randyll and Loras knelt on one knee. Before the gathered brothers, septas, and the High Septon, they solemnly swore their sacred oaths. Their voices were firm and loud, echoing through the empty hall.
Then, guided by an old septa, they walked toward the Queen's chambers. The stairs were steep and narrow. The torches on the walls stretched their shadows long. Finally, they reached the cell at the top of the tower.
The cell was eight feet long and six feet wide, dark and damp. There was no furniture—only a pallet of straw on a wooden board and a bench for prayer, on which sat a water jug, a copy of The Seven-Pointed Star, and a candle. The only window was no larger than an arrow slit, letting in only a sliver of faint light.
Margaery huddled in a corner, barefoot, trembling. She wore only a rough novice's robe. Her hair was tangled, bits of straw clinging to it. Her feet were caked with dirt. Her skin was grimy from days without washing. When she saw Loras, a glimmer of light appeared in her eyes. "Loras! They said you were hurt?"
"Yes. Then a friend of mine healed me with a wondrous magic. My sister, what have they done to you?" Loras's voice was full of pain. He walked quickly to her side.
Margaery threw herself into his arms and sobbed. Tears soaked Loras's clothes. "They stripped me. I was wearing an ivory lace gown with freshwater pearls at the bosom. Those septas reached in with their dirty hands—they stripped me naked. They stripped Megga and Alla too. Megga pushed a septa into a candelabra and set her clothes on fire. I was worried for Alla, truly. Her face was as white as milk. She was too frightened even to cry." She wept and accused, her body shaking.
"Poor little thing." Loras patted Margaery's back. Rage and pity filled his eyes.
"He would not let me see them," Margaery said between sobs. "He locked the four of us in separate cells. Before you came, I saw only septas. One septa came every hour to ask if I was ready to confess my crimes. They would not even let me sleep! If I fell asleep, they would shake me awake and keep asking. Last night, I confessed to Septa Unella. I wanted to gouge out her eyes." Her voice was full of hatred and despair.
"Damn them," Margaery cursed. "I hope everyone here burns in the seven hells. Alla is gentle and shy. How could they treat her like this? Megga, I know—she will laugh like a dockside whore—but inside, she is still just a little girl. I love the three of them, and they love me. If that sparrow means to make them lie against me—"
"The three of them are in trouble too, yes. They are all accused." Loras frowned. "Margaery, did you and they ever—"
"My cousins?" Margaery looked at him in disbelief. "Alla and Megga are still children. Brother, you know them—this is absurd. Can you not get us out of here?" Her eyes were full of hope and helplessness.
"Yes. Lord Randyll and I came to take you back. We will watch over you until the trial."
"Trial?" Real fear finally entered the girl's voice. Her face went pale. "It must be a trial? Could you not simply rescue us?"
"His Holiness has his new knightly order guarding you. To force you out, I would have to cut a bloody path through this holy building. And that would only confirm the accusations against you. My foolish sister, how else can you prove your innocence except through a trial?" Loras stroked Margaery's tangled hair with affection. "Do not forget. You have the right to choose the trial's method. You are a queen. You are my sister. I will protect you with my life."
His eyes were resolute. They poured strength into Margaery.
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