High Sparrow stood motionless in the center of the chamber, his gaunt frame wrapped in the plain robes of his office. Torchlight flickered across his hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes, casting long shadows that made him appear almost spectral.
Around him, septas and Sparrow guards moved in barely contained panic, voices rising in a chaotic murmur.
The bed was empty.
The window stood open to the cold morning air.
And Queen Margaery was gone.
One of the septas, the one who had dozed off during her watch, was on her knees, sobbing and clutching at the hem of the High Sparrow's robe.
"I only closed my eyes for a moment, Your High Holiness!" she wailed. "I swear it on the Seven! She was there praying at her desk, and then… she wasn't!"
The High Sparrow looked down at her with cold, unblinking eyes. His voice, when it came, was soft but carried the weight of divine judgment.
"Silence."
The room fell deathly still.
He stepped toward the open window with slow, deliberate movements, his sandaled feet silent on the stone floor. He leaned out, gazing into the slowly brightening sky. The first faint light of dawn was painting the eastern horizon in pale gold.
There was no rope dangling from the sill.
No broken bars.
No sign of forced entry or desperate escape.
Only the cold wind.
"Impossible," he murmured.
Ser Theodan, one of his most trusted Sparrows, stepped forward, his face pale but composed.
"Your High Holiness, the outer guards swear no one entered or left through the main doors. The entire tower was under watch. There is no way she could have escaped on foot."
The High Sparrow turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the terrified faces gathered in the chamber. His expression remained calm, almost serene, but there was a cold fire burning behind his eyes.
The High Sparrow did not answer at once.
"This was no ordinary escape. No man can walk out of here," he said at last.
A ripple of fear and righteous anger spread through the room.
The High Sparrow raised his hands, and the murmurs died instantly.
"Or if he did… he was not seen."
One of the septas crossed herself hurriedly. "Your High Holiness… what does that mean?"
The High Sparrow turned slightly, his hollow eyes passing over her without warmth.
"It means," he said, "that someone has entered these sacred halls without the Seven's knowledge."
Ser Theodan frowned. "Then it must have been a guard. A lapse in vigilance—"
"A lapse?" the High Sparrow repeated softly, as if tasting the word.
He shook his head once. "No. A lapse leaves footprints. Fear leaves noise. This leaves neither."
Silence thickened in the chamber.
Then he spoke again, slower now, each word measured.
"Either the Queen was taken by skill beyond what we expected… or she was taken with help from within these walls."
That landed harder than any accusation of magic.
A septa whispered, horrified, "From within…?"
The High Sparrow did not look at her.
The High Sparrow stood motionless, his gaunt face illuminated by torchlight. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost gentle yet it carried the weight of divine authority.
"Search the entire keep. Question every servant, every guard, every soul who walked these halls tonight. And send ravens to every sept and holdfast in the realm. The Queen has been stolen by forces that oppose the Seven. We will not rest until she is found, and until those who took her are burned for their heresy."
One of the septas whimpered. Another clutched her crystal seven-pointed star so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The High Sparrow's eyes burned with righteous fury, but beneath it was cold calculation. Margaery's disappearance was a disaster for the Faith's carefully constructed narrative.
The trial had been meant to humble House Tyrell and cement the Faith's power over the nobility.
Now it would look like weakness. Like the Seven themselves could not protect their own servants.
But he would turn this to his advantage.
He turned back to the window, staring out at the slowly rising sun.
The bells of the Great Sept began to toll, not the measured call to prayer, but the urgent clamor of alarm. The city would wake to fear and confusion.
The Faith would wake to purpose and the High Sparrow would be ready to shape it.
By midday, the news had reached Lord Mace Tyrell.
He was in the middle of another grueling interrogation in one of the sept's smaller chambers when a septa burst in with the message. The High Sparrow watched him closely as the words spilled out, Margaery was gone.
Vanished from her cell in the Maidenvault without a trace.
Mace's face went from confusion to outright fury in a heartbeat.
"Where is my daughter?!" he bellowed, slamming a meaty fist on the table. "What have you done with her?! She was under your watch! Your 'protection'!"
The High Sparrow observed him in silence.
The High Sparrow remained seated, his gaunt face impassive, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He studied Mace with cold, calculating eyes.
"You seem… remarkably distressed, my lord," he said softly. "One might even say suspiciously so."
Mace's face turned purple with rage.
"Distressed?! My daughter, your queen! has been taken from under your noses, and you dare accuse me?! I have been locked in this damned sept answering your endless questions while my daughter was stolen! If anyone is to blame, it is you and your fanatics!"
The High Sparrow's expression did not change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He knew Mace Tyrell was many things… loud, ambitious, not particularly clever, but he also knew the man was not foolish enough to attempt such a daring rescue while his daughter was still under house arrest.
It would have been suicide.
Still… the Tyrells had proven themselves cunning before.
"Search his quarters," the High Sparrow ordered calmly to the Sparrows standing guard. "You are free to return to your residence. But King's Landing is unsafe in times of uncertainty. The Faith will continue its inquiries."
Mace continued to roar his innocence as the guards closed in, but the High Sparrow had already turned away, his mind moving to darker possibilities.
The gates of the Red Keep stood half-shadowed beneath the midday sun. Gold cloaks shifted uneasily on their posts as the sound of hooves approached across the stone bridge.
At their head rode Lord Mace Tyrell.
He did not look like a man returning in triumph.
His cloak was wrinkled from hours of questioning, his face drawn tight in a mixture of anger and exhaustion. Behind him rode a small escort of Faith Militant guards, not prisoners, not captors, but something more unsettling in between.
Their presence did not announce his guilt, nor did it affirm his innocence. It simply reminded all who saw him that the Faith still had its hand on the Reach.
The portcullis groaned upward.
No heralds called his name.
No honor guard met him.
Only watching eyes.
Inside the gate, the courtyard had already learned what had happened. Servants paused mid-step. Knights slowed their training. Even the air felt different, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.
Mace dismounted heavily.
His boots struck stone with unnecessary force, as though he could stamp authority back into the world.
A steward approached, bowing low. "My lord…"
"Where is my daughter?" Mace snapped at once.
The steward hesitated. "Her Grace is—"
"GONE!" Mace roared, startling nearby guards. "Taken from under the Faith's watch and no one can tell me how?!"
The words echoed off the courtyard walls.
A few men looked away quickly. Others pretended not to hear.
The Faith escort did not react. They simply stood at a measured distance, silent as carved stone.
From the far end of the yard, a familiar voice drifted down with calm precision.
"Lord Tyrell."
Mace turned sharply.
Ser Kevan Lannister stood beneath the colonnade, hands clasped behind his back. Not armored for war, not dressed for courtly ceremony, just watching, as if he had been expecting this moment.
Behind him lingered a small cluster of Lannister men. Not enough to threaten. Enough to remind.
Kevan's eyes moved briefly to the Faith guards behind Mace, then back to him.
"You return earlier than expected," Kevan said evenly.
"I return because my daughter has vanished," Mace shot back. "While she was under your King's protection, and under that fanatic's watch."
A few servants nearby stiffened at the word fanatic.
Kevan did not.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly. "The High Sparrow has already informed the Small Council. The matter is being investigated."
"Investigated?" Mace barked a bitter laugh.
"My daughter is missing, Lord Kevan. Not a misplaced coin or a spilled cup of wine. She is the Queen."
Kevan's expression remained composed, but something cold flickered beneath it.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"And that is precisely why this is… delicate."
Mace took a step forward. "Delicate? There is nothing delicate about this. Someone has taken her, and your city of liars is standing around pretending otherwise."
At that, Kevan's gaze sharpened slightly.
Around them, the courtyard had gone still.
Even the Faith guards shifted, ever so slightly, as if measuring the temperature of the air.
Kevan spoke more softly now.
"Be careful, Lord Tyrell. In King's Landing, grief and accusation often wear the same face. And one is far more dangerous than the other."
Mace's jaw tightened. "Are you threatening me?"
"No," Kevan replied at once. "I am reminding you where you are."
A long silence followed.
The kind that did not feel empty, but loaded.
Mace looked past Kevan then, toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, toward the Red Keep's heart where power sat quietly and waited.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but no less angry.
"My daughter was taken while I was questioned like a criminal," he said. "If the Faith believes I had anything to do with this, then tell them to their face I will see them burned for it."
One of the Faith Militant shifted at that.
Just a small movement.
But Kevan saw it.
So did Mace.
Kevan exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Lord Tyrell," he said carefully, "until this matter is resolved, it would be wise for you to remain within the Keep. For your safety… and for the realm's stability."
Mace stared at him.
"You want to keep me caged," he said.
"I want to prevent King's Landing from tearing itself apart while your daughter is still missing," Kevan replied.
That landed differently.
Not as an accusation.
Not as comfort, but as reality.
For the first time, Mace's anger faltered, just slightly replaced by something more dangerous.
Uncertainty.
Behind him, the Faith guards remained still.
And somewhere high above the city walls, unseen by any of them, King's Landing continued to turn quietly beneath the rising sun, waiting for whatever would break first.