Chapter 74: A Prophet from the Sky
With a vast army encamped outside the city, every gate of King's Landing was placed under strict guard. The shadow of war hung heavily over its people. Anyone walking the streets moved quickly, eyes alert, faces tense.
The Gold Cloaks—tasked with maintaining order—stood ready under the command of their new commander, Jacelyn. They braced themselves for unrest, fearing riots or panic brought on by the looming siege. Yet to their surprise, the city remained eerily calm.
Too calm.
…
Nym had been born in Flea Bottom and raised there. He had spent his entire childhood and adolescence in its alleys and gutters, and if anyone knew that wretched place inside out, it was him.
But familiarity did not mean affection.
Rape, robbery, stumbling drunkards, and fresh corpses lying cold by the roadside each morning—such was Flea Bottom. From a young age, Nym had despised it, and early on he'd sworn to escape that filth at any cost.
When he came of age, he begged his father to apprentice him at a smithy run by an acquaintance.
Blacksmithing was not an uncommon trade. Most poor families could, with a modest fee, secure an apprenticeship for their children. But few lasted. The work was relentless, dawn to dusk, and most forges didn't provide meals. Without proper nourishment, how long could a child endure?
Nym endured.
More than endured—he persevered. With discipline, stubborn will, and the quiet support of his family, he advanced from apprentice to blacksmith, then to seasoned craftsman. Eventually, he became a weapons master catering exclusively to knights and nobles.
Half a lifetime of struggle freed him from Flea Bottom's grip.
On Street of Steel, he owned his own shop and home. He married the gentle daughter of a small merchant and fathered a lovely son.
Compared to many, his life was good.
Nym was satisfied. He planned to work a few more years, save enough coin, and—through favors and connections—place his son as a squire under a knight. Perhaps then the next generation might truly rise.
Then his son fell ill.
The savings of a lifetime evaporated, and the optimism that once defined him slowly gave way to gloom. Nym had never been fond of drink before, but now alcohol seemed the only thing that still stirred any feeling in him at all.
…
"That damned Hound should rot in the Seven Hells!"
"Isn't the Hound exactly the sort of thing that crawls out of the Seven Hells? Otherwise he wouldn't have dared attack the Messenger."
"Not just him—the Imp too! Devils, the both of them!"
"Good thing those Sparrow lads threw themselves in front of him. Otherwise the Messenger would've been killed."
"The Sparrows have always been brave."
"Brave? Please. They know they won't die. Didn't the Messenger even bring one back after his head was chopped clean off?"
"Honestly, even without them, I don't think the Messenger would've been harmed at all…"
…
Seated in a dark corner of the tavern, Nym listened to the neighboring table's loud chatter. He knew full well who they were talking about.
Ironically, this "holy messenger of the Seven," praised with such reverence, had not long ago been a figure the entire city reviled—a black wizard everyone feared.
At some point, though, terror had turned into worship.
Nym had no interest in it. Considering himself a sensible man, he found the city's sudden transformation laughable—almost contemptible.
People were fools.
Shaking his head, he drained the last of his ale, rose unsteadily, and made his way home.
Walking the streets at night in King's Landing was rarely wise. Back in Flea Bottom, Nym would never have dared it. But Steel Street was safer, and with the city on high alert, only outright idiots would stir trouble now—unless desperation drove them.
He followed the stone road home without incident.
When he opened the door, his wife, Mela, was speaking softly with a neighbor. Both women stood as he entered.
"I'll prepare supper," Mela said.
"No need. I already ate." Nym hesitated. "How is he? Any better?"
"…No. He's still—"
The words fell away, leaving silence behind.
Madie, the neighbor woman, cleared her throat gently. "Nym… you really should take your son to see the Messenger. I'm sure he can cure the boy."
The Messenger again.
It seemed everyone was talking about him—old men, children, maidens, soldiers…
Had they all forgotten what he truly was?
A black wizard.
So Nym said irritably, "Cure him? Don't be ridiculous. Even Maester Hobert couldn't cure this illness—how could some shady wizard possibly do better?"
"The Messenger isn't a wizard. At this point, how can you still not believe?" the woman shot back. She patted the small boy leaning against her knees as he listened quietly. The child was still frail—so frail that she hesitated for a split second—but she quickly regained her confidence.
"Don't look at how thin he still is. His appetite has more than doubled! Kalper and I watch him eat more every day—it makes us so happy. Wizards can't do that."
"Or maybe that's just normal," Nym replied stubbornly. "I was the same way when I was seven."
"Oh, stop it, Nym. If I hadn't taken him to see the Messenger, who knows when that 'normal' would've come?"
At that, Nym's wife spoke softly, "He's right… maybe we really should consider going to see the Messenger."
"What are you afraid of? He doesn't even charge money. Someone that powerful isn't going to scheme against a blacksmith like you."
"But he's a wizard! A black wizard who eats people!"
"Have you actually seen that? Or are you just repeating rumors?"
"I—"
"He's someone even the king curries favor with. And you're just a smith on Steel Street. Being this cautious—what good does it do you?"
…
Those sharp words felt like the last straw crushing what little rational resistance Nym had left. That night, lying awake under his covers, he tossed and turned.
Was he really being too cautious?
Should he… at least try?
But what if it was a trap?
What if—
His son's pale, weakened face surfaced in his mind.
Nym clenched his jaw.
Tomorrow. He would take his son to see the Messenger.
Maybe—just maybe—it would work.
He couldn't keep waiting like this.
---
Early the next morning, Nym rose as his wife finished washing and dressing their son. He lifted the boy onto his back and stepped out the door.
"Dad, where are we going?" the child asked.
"To cure your illness."
"…I don't want to go out. Granny Ellie said it's dangerous outside."
"It's fine now," Nym said gently. "I'm here."
As he walked through the streets with his son on his back, familiar faces greeted them with smiles and blessings. Under those warm gazes, father and son made their way toward Flea Bottom.
The Messenger had been invited there from the Red Keep by one of the Sparrow leaders, and Flea Bottom had become his base.
Nym hadn't believed the rumors of improved order—but once he stepped inside, his thoughts began to change.
Children ran and laughed. Women wore relaxed expressions. Elderly men sat along the roadside with canes, quietly watching the world pass.
Joy—real joy—was visible everywhere.
It was nothing like the numb madness he remembered.
Like living in two different worlds.
From hell… to heaven.
Quietly observing, Nym felt his son shift on his back.
"Dad, they don't look like Granny Ellie said."
"What did she say?"
"She said Flea Bottom was full of miserable people and killers," the boy hesitated. "But they look happy. They don't seem bad."
"…Maybe," Nym muttered.
His caution remained, but something warm—something hopeful—was taking root.
He tightened his grip on his son and quickened his pace.
Flea Bottom might seem like a maze to outsiders, but to someone born there, it felt small. Soon enough, Nym found the Sparrows' compound.
From far away, he saw it—a long line winding through the narrow alleyways. A sea of heads. No end in sight.
His stomach tightened… but strangely, his confidence grew too.
So many people believed.
That had to mean something… right?
He joined the back of the queue, his son still on his back.
…
"They say Old Sam from Narrow Shack—who had dysentery—is completely cured."
…
"My neighbor went because her husband didn't love her anymore. Guess what? He stopped going to brothels and now won't leave her side. Makes me want to vomit."
…
"Incredible."
"Of course it is. The Messenger is a god walking among us."
"God walking among us and divine messenger aren't quite the same thing."
"Tell that to the High Septon of the Great Sept. He calls himself the gods' voice—yet look at that pig-faced charlatan. Every time I see him, I want to punch him."
…
Listening silently, hope swelled inside the boy. Nym felt it too—yet doubt lingered.
The black wizard of legend. The stories of blood magic and flesh-eating rituals…
What if something went wrong?
This was his only son.
Finally, by late afternoon, it was their turn.
Inside the courtyard stood gray-robed priests and heavily armed soldiers.
The priests didn't trouble Nym.
The northern soldiers did.
He lowered his head at once.
"What's your name?" a clear, young voice asked.
Nym glanced up carefully—and froze.
The man behind the table looked impossibly young.
At a nudge from a Sparrow beside him, Nym snapped back to reality.
"N-Nym, my lord. Not me—my son."
"Very well, little one. Do you believe in the Seven?"
"Yes," the boy answered clearly, far braver than his father.
"Then begin your prayer."
Guided by the Sparrow, Nym gently set his son down.
The boy knelt.
"Merciful Mother…"
Under Nym's strained gaze, the Messenger extended a wooden staff. The crystal at its tip glowed softly as it touched the boy's forehead.
"The Seven watch over you."
A faint shimmer flickered—and vanished.
Nym, still stunned, was ushered aside and lifted his son again.
That was all?
Walking away, dazed, Nym finally asked, "How do you feel?"
"…I don't feel tight here anymore," the boy said, rubbing his chest. "Dad… am I better?"
The shock hit first—then amazement—then joy.
Maester Hobert said that once the pressure eased, it meant improvement…
"Then… then you might really be better," Nym whispered, overwhelmed. "Better… yes, better…"
He turned back to look at the still-endless line.
His face remained unchanged.
But his eyes—free at last of doubt—now held quiet reverence.