Chapter 249 - Green Fire Shoots Into the Sky

Barristan had cut off Cersei's wildfire plot before it could finish.

The wildfire buried beneath the Great Sept of Baelor hadn't been enough. The blast only shattered half the foundation.

One of the stone pillars at the main gate had snapped. It lay across the steps now, rubble from the break scattered around it. The arched windows on the second floor were gone, stained glass raining down on the square like hailstones.

The Sept's main body still stood. But the entire structure had shifted westward by about a palm's width, and the cracks in the walls ran without stopping from the foundation all the way up to the dome.

The Warrior's Sons were still holding inside.

They had blocked every entrance, stacking long tables and stone blocks into makeshift barricades. The wounded had been carried behind the altar. Everyone still on their feet had been posted at the windows.

The High Sparrow sat on the stone steps beside the altar, back against a pillar.

His face was pale to the point of gray. The color had nearly drained from his lips entirely.

The wound on his shoulder had been re-bandaged, the wrappings thick, but blood still seeped from the edges and left a dark wet stain spreading across his gray robe.

The blood loss had taken the last trace of warmth from him. His teeth chattered. His limbs were stiff as frozen wood. His knuckles had gone purple with cold, his lips blue-white. He sat hunched on the stone steps like a blade of grass after the first hard frost.

He lowered his head and looked for a while at his own bare feet. Chilblains had already formed across the insteps, red and purple mottled together.

After a long time, he finally bent down and pulled on the boots he had always refused to touch. Then he dragged a thick wool cloak around his shoulders.

Barristan Selmy stood beside him.

Shouts and the clash of fighting drifted in from outside, rising and falling, sometimes far, sometimes close. Tywin's army had the Sept surrounded, but the Poor Fellows had risen on their own to defend the Seven, and they were hitting Tywin's men from behind.

Footsteps came fast down the side aisle.

Barristan Selmy stepped aside. A septryman in gray robes — not old, cheekbones sharp, chin narrow and pointed — ran to the High Sparrow, crouched down, and put his mouth close to the old man's ear.

The High Sparrow's brow moved slightly. He raised his eyes to Barristan Selmy.

"My little sparrow tells me that Khal Drogo circled above King's Landing with his dragon." He paused. "And then left."

"We launched our attacks against the Lannister forces, the City Watch, the Tyrell forces. We lost many people. The Sept nearly came down around us."

He stopped, drew a breath. The blood loss had made each one shallow and short.

"Have we been betrayed by our ally? Tell me, ser."

Barristan Selmy was silent for a few heartbeats.

He looked at the High Sparrow's pale face. He looked at the feet that were wearing boots for the first time. He looked at the thin shoulders wrapped beneath the cloak.

He knew the question wasn't easy to answer. He also knew that "I don't know" wasn't good enough.

But it was the truth.

"I don't know what Khal Drogo is thinking. But you can see what's in front of us: Cersei already buried wildfire beneath this Sept. Dragon or no dragon, this war has already started. What we can do now is resist with everything we have."

The High Sparrow said nothing.

He stared at the new crack splitting the vaulted ceiling above. Plaster was falling from the edges in small chunks, landing on the floor tiles below like fine snow.

Lancel came running in through the side door.

Blood was spattered across his armor, his left shoulder cloak slashed open, but he hadn't been hit. His boots ground across the shattered glass on the floor as he crossed the room, each step a sharp crunch.

"High Septon. The gold cloaks are storming the Alchemists' Guildhall in force. Too many of them. We can't hold."

The High Sparrow raised his head.

"How much wildfire is still inside?"

"A great deal," Lancel said. "Enough to destroy all of King's Landing. We don't have time to move it. Most of it is still down below."

The High Sparrow looked down at his ill-fitting boots.

He sat with that for a moment. Then he pressed his good hand against the pillar and pushed himself to his feet.

He rose slowly. He kept his head down and held still while the dizziness passed, then lifted his eyes again.

"Then give them a surprise. Let them think they've retaken the Guildhall. Then light the green fire."

Lancel nodded. "Understood."

He turned and walked out.

Barristan Selmy watched his figure disappear through the side door, then brought his eyes back to the High Sparrow.

"You have to leave too. Tywin will break through soon. You can't stay here."

"I know," the High Sparrow said.

The battle at the Alchemists' Guildhall lasted about half an hour.

The gold cloaks hit from both ends of the Street of Silent Sisters, toppling the barricades outside and smashing through the main gate. By the time they surged into the ground-floor corridor, Lancel and a dozen Warrior's Sons had already fallen back to the level below.

He stood in the middle of the wildfire stockpile.

Glass jar pressed against glass jar, stacked row upon row on stone shelves. The green liquid at each jar's mouth held a faint, oily glow.

He held an oil-soaked fuse rope in his fist. One end of it burned at a nearby candle stand, trailing a thin ribbon of gray smoke.

Footsteps from the stairs. Iron boots on stone, closer and closer, more and more of them.

Lancel thrust the fuse rope into the nearest jar.

Flame burst from the mouth of the first jar, caught the second, caught the third, a lit fuse screaming across the entire row of shelves.

He turned and ran for the stairs. He had taken only a few steps when the heat wave hit him from behind.

First came a deep, muffled BOOM. Then the second. Then the third.

The roof of the Alchemists' Guildhall blew apart. Stone and tile flew in every direction. A mass of green fire punched through the rupture and shot into the sky.

The ground trembled.

People at the street corners were knocked to their knees. Flagstones cracked, the fissures spreading outward like a spider's web.

Then the second explosion. The entire northern wall of the building came down. Green fire poured out from the ruins and flowed downhill along the slope of the street.

All of King's Landing shuddered.

In Flea Bottom, on the Street of Steel, near the Old Gate, the little sparrows who had long since slipped into the crowds began to shout.

"The Lannisters want to burn you alive! Your lives mean nothing to them — you're ants! Turn to the Faith! Fight for the Seven!"

People in the alleys looked at one another. Then someone shouted back. Then another. Like a stone dropped into still water, the rings spreading outward, wider and wider.

More and more people joined the Poor Fellows.

They crawled out of doorways, climbed out of cellars, came sliding down ladders from rooftops. Iron spikes. Wooden clubs. Butcher knives. Sickles. They surged toward the wildfire caches guarded by the gold cloaks and met them at close quarters in the narrow underground passages.

Another explosion.

This one to the south, an alley not far away. Someone had set off the wildfire in a basement. The whole house collapsed inward. A massive crater opened in the ground. Green fire surged up from the pit and scorched the surrounding flagstones until they glowed red.

Barristan Selmy used the chaos of the Guildhall explosion to break out with the High Sparrow.

He led the old man into a narrow alley off the southern stretch of Muddy Way and stopped before a gray, dust-caked wooden door.

Three knocks. A pause. Two more.

The door opened a crack. The person inside looked at him, then pulled it wide.

Barristan Selmy helped the High Sparrow through.

The people inside recognized the High Septon and Barristan Selmy. They scrambled to their feet and brought two bowls of hot tea.

➤ Next: The Red Keep Changes Hands