"Fight!" I tore Wind of Change from its scabbard and, rising in the stirrups, shouted at the top of my lungs once more. "Fight!"
"Aaaargh!" In a single surge, the ranks of the Gold Cloaks swayed forward, their swords flashing again and again. Hundreds of frightened pigeons burst from the nearby rooftops in a clatter of wings.
The enormous crowd gave one terrible, unified howl—the cry of a wild beast that realizes it has been lured into a trap and that death stands within striking distance!
And in the next instant, from the far end of the square, from the direction of Muddy Way, the Lannister cavalry advanced in perfect formation. Their charge and pressure was fearsome. Most of all, it was monstrous in its effect upon the defenseless and witless mob.
From Cat's Alley, the exit was sealed by Tyrell troops—pikemen and crossbowmen. A terrified scream soared toward the heavens!
***
It had all begun several days earlier, right after Cersei had been driven from the city—Gods, what a mess she had made of things! I had not been lazy then; accompanied by Tyrion, a numerous retinue, and a heavy guard, I went to Flea Bottom.
A vast crowd had gathered, led by His Sparrowness—a gaunt, soft-spoken old man in a threadbare robe, with sharp features, a dark-blond beard, and deceptively gentle gray eyes.
Gods be my witness, I had wanted to do this the right way—listening to the chief demands and hopes of the smallfolk, trying to understand what they wanted and what they dreamed of.
I think I could have reached an agreement with them. In truth, they were not demanding so very much. And in time, I had intended to give them much of it myself.
I would have come to terms with them, if not for that fucking bastard they all called His Sparrowness. With his honeyed voice and quiet manners, he nonetheless managed to inflame the crowd's fury.
He did not want concessions or compromise. Taking my visit as a sign of weakness, the old man suddenly decided he could dictate terms to a king and demanded—not asked, but demanded—that the ancient military orders be restored in Westeros: Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows.
In their time, those bands had defended the interests of the common people and watched over honesty, mercy, and justice throughout all Westeros.
Maegor Targaryen had wiped them out root and branch, understanding the harm they could cause. I did not think so categorically and even acknowledged that, properly organized, the Orders might bring the realm considerable benefit. But I also possessed knowledge of what might follow if I showed weakness now. How grave the problems that could spring up from nothing! Miss the moment, and right in the capital a new organization—hostile to royal authority and inclined toward radical methods—would gather strength and begin to act.
For now, the movement of the poor united by His Sparrowness did not appear especially dangerous. It seemed that simple folk, weary of war, injustice, and poverty, were merely trying to defend their trampled rights. But if not stopped, within mere months—perhaps even weeks—they would become a formidable force, reborn as religious fanatics and political extremists. They would begin riots, seize people, torture them in the name of rooting out sin and evil. One need not be a prophet to understand that such a course would, sooner or later, end in open rebellion with thousands of dead. Did Westeros need such a grievous headache? I think the answer was obvious—it did not.
His Sparrowness had chosen a poor time to raise this question! During that conversation I was already pressing him insistently, nearly to the point of losing my royal dignity, urging him to wait.
What more can be said? Even Tyrion, pouring forth like a nightingale and performing miracles of eloquence and logic, could not persuade them.
That day, in the square, realizing nothing worthwhile would come of it, I asked him to meet again in a calmer setting and guaranteed him and his followers complete safety.
They were brave sons of bitches—this had to be acknowledged. And His Sparrowness, accompanied by three equally fanatical and fearless aides, came to visit me in the Red Keep.
Together with Kevan and Tyrion we tried once more to persuade them. Yet the initiative came from me—my kinsmen quickly fell silent, judging that it was becoming simply improper. But the more we spoke, the more it was clear they took our words for weakness. They dug in like rams, deaf to reason and logical argument. They would not wait; they wanted everything at once. Well then—there is only one remedy for rams.
I informed them we would meet again the next day. And let the Gods be witness to that meeting.
"We will discuss all matters related to your demands," I told them at last. "I give you my word—we will resolve your grievances, and none shall remain dissatisfied!"
And they left, hiding the victor's joy beneath their meek and modest faces. Two-faced bastards—you brought this upon yourselve!
The situation had escalated to such a degree that killing one man—His Sparrowness—and even his inner circle would solve nothing. The movement of the poor had arisen and was spreading like wildfire through dry forest. The fallen banner would be seized at once by other hands, and their dead would be made into saints. The infection had to be burned out with red-hot iron—every last trace of it! Especially now, in time of war, when a fifth column could not be left festering in the rear.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
🥳Joining P@treon keeps me motivated and eager to work diligently, so please consider joining.🥰