"When we first arrived in King's Landing, the siege hadn't yet begun," Theodore Wells began, his voice low and haunted. "Refugees from the Riverlands and the Crownlands were huddling under the city walls, building shacks of sticks and mud. It was a miserable existence, but it was better than being hunted like dogs by Tywin Lannister's outriders in the open fields.
"But even that small mercy didn't last. Once the Imp took charge of the defenses, he sent the Gold Cloaks to level the shantytowns. The refugees were driven inside the walls, packing into the only place that would take them—Flea Bottom. The City Watch rarely patrols those stinking alleys, so they didn't have to fear the lash, but they found a new kind of hell instead. The influx of thousands of starving mouths led to brawls, then blood-feuds, and finally a madness that spilled into the neighboring streets."
Theodore paused, looking at Caden and the others. "Do you know what 'Brown Soup' is?"
Caden and the men from the monastery exchanged a look. "A stew? I imagine it's not made of the finest beef," Caden said cautiously.
"It's a broth made of whatever meat the pot-shops can find," Theodore explained, his lip curling in disgust. "Rat, dog, cat... and things much worse. The color is normal enough, like a common potato stew. But the 'brown' in the name refers to its nature. It isn't black as sin, but it is certainly not white as innocence."
Caden's eyes went wide. He covered his mouth. "Heavens... you mean people? Cannibalism?"
Theodore nodded grimly. "Last month, while the High Sparrow was preaching in a small sept on the Street of Coppers, a washerwoman came to him in tears. Her only son had vanished. The High Sparrow sent me to find him. We followed the whispers of the poor until we found a butcher's cellar in Flea Bottom. We found the boy. Or what was left of him."
Trick's face turned a mottled red, the color of a liver. "In the Riverlands, we have seen slaughter beyond words, but this... to eat a child in the shadow of the Red Keep? How could they?"
"Devils," Caden whispered, shaking his head.
"When we put the butcher to the question," Theodore continued, "he claimed the boy was already dead when he was brought in. He didn't see it as murder—merely 'resourcefulness.' We didn't listen to his logic. We bound him, threw him in a cart, and burned him outside the gates. But the mother... she watched the execution and then walked into the Blackwater. She couldn't live with the knowledge of where her son had gone.
"And the hunger continues. Before the siege, the Riverlands were scorched by the Lions and the Mummers. The Reach was cut off by Stannis. Half a million people in this city were left without grain. And the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish? He didn't open the granaries. He bought up every bushel before the war and sold it at triple the price while the gates were sealed. He made a fortune in loans while children died. Six coppers for a pumpkin. A silver stag for a bag of corn. A gold dragon for a cut of beef. Parents sold their children into 'service' just for a bowl of soup—signing ridiculous contracts that sold their lives for a single full belly."
"That is slavery," Caden said firmly. "Slavery is forbidden in the Seven Kingdoms."
Theodore gave him a piercing look. "Call them 'indentured servants' or 'debtors.' The lords won't use the word slave, but when a person has no control over their own breath, what is the difference? In this city, being a slave is a lucky fate. Those who aren't bought starve, and those who starve end up in the pot-shops."
He looked sickened. "You don't know the depravity of the wealthy here, Caden. Little boys and girls enter those high manors one day and are tossed into the gutters the next, covered in... dishonorable wounds. Corpses for the soup."
Trick gritted his teeth. "Does the High Sparrow know? Has he told the Queen?"
"He knows," Theodore said. "He organized us to gather evidence. We tried to petition Cersei Lannister. We tried to petition the High Septon. We couldn't even get past the palace gates. To speak to the Queen, you must be a merchant with coin or a lord with a name. Refugees have no voice. And the Great Sept? They told us the peace of the streets is a 'mortal matter' and they would not interfere.
"So the High Sparrow decided: if the Crown is blind and the Sept is deaf, the people must act. Since then, he has sent the Sunwalkers out under the guise of mending and prayer. We heal the faithful, gather the names of the corrupt, and when the time is right, we trigger the riots. we storm the warehouses of the hoarders and distribute the grain ourselves. It's the only reason our followers are still breathing."
"That sounds suicidal," Trick noted. "The Gold Cloaks won't stand for that."
"During the siege, they were too busy with Stannis to care," Theodore explained. "Now that the Tyrells have arrived with grain-trains, the edge of the famine has softened. The riots have stopped, for now. But we've made enemies of the guilds and the street-bosses who used to run the underworld. We've 'removed' several of their most vicious enforcers. That is why I cannot leave the High Sparrow's side. He is a target for every knife in the dark."
King's Landing was a city of nearly half a million souls, guarded by eight thousand Gold Cloaks. But the City Watch only cared for the King's peace, not the people's. The daily life of the poor was governed by gangs, guilds, and the whims of the powerful.
"Getting on the wrong side of the bosses is a death sentence," Caden warned.
"Which is why we've moved," Theodore said. "The High Sparrow and two thousand of his most devoted have built a camp in the plaza outside the Great Sept of Baelor. We no longer sleep in the smaller septs. My brothers in the Poor Fellowes keep the perimeter. No gang dares cross that many pikes."
Caden, being a knight, knew the history. "The Poor Fellowes... they're still illegal, aren't they? Maegor the Cruel put a price on their heads centuries ago."
Theodore scoffed. "The dragons are dead, and their laws died with them. Besides, we don't carry their banners officially. We are merely 'armed volunteers' protecting the faithful."
Trick looked relieved. "Wisely done. If you claimed the name openly, Tywin Lannister would have the Gold Cloaks level your camp by morning. The Lightbringer warned us to remain in the shadows while the Order is young. We must build our strength until the moment we can strike a finishing blow."
"We know," Theodore nodded. "The High Sparrow is careful. Even when we use the Light to mend, we carry herbs and salves as a cover. We use the lowest dose possible, mending a wound over several days so it looks like a 'natural' miracle rather than a sudden spell."
Trick leaned in. "The Master is worried that if the Light is revealed too early, we'll be drafted into the war. Solar Grace is a strategic power that can turn a battle."
"I would sooner die than mend a Westerman," Theodore spat. "I'd trade my soul to see Tywin Lannister or the Mountain in a grave."
He shifted his tone. "However... we have found many among our flock who are ready. Friars, commoners, even a few landless knights who believe in the Word. When you return to the monastery, can you take them with you? They need the Seed from the Lightbringer's own hand."
"Will it not weaken your defense here?" Trick asked.
"No. We have enough 'Sparrows' for the camp. Once they awaken their own Light, the Master can send them back. They will be a greater shield for the cause than a hundred common pikes."
Trick agreed. "We leave in a few days. Send them to me at the Great Sept, and I'll see them safely to the Gods Eye."
The next morning, Trick led his candidates to the Great Sept to meet the High Sparrow, while Caden returned to the Street of Steel.
The Street was already roaring with heat. When Caden entered Tobho Mott's shop, the young clerk practically lunged over the counter.
"Ser! You've returned! My Master came back from the Tower of the Hand shortly after you left. When he heard of your... 'merchandise,' he nearly had me lashed for letting you leave without a name. Do you have it? Master Mott is in the rear courtyard by the main furnace. If you are willing, please—follow me."
Caden nodded, his pulse steady. "Lead the way."
As he walked through the opulent shop toward the soot and fire of the rear, Caden adjusted the hilt of Wildflower. The game of gold was about to begin.
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