The High Sparrow

— You would spill blood in this holy place?
— Oh, the gods won't mind. They've spilled more blood than the rest of us combined.

— For years I pretended to love the poor, the afflicted. I had pity for them, but I never loved them. They disgusted me.
— They are hard to love. The poor disgust us because they are us, shorn of our illusions. They show us what we'd look like without our fine clothes. How we'd smell without perfume.

— My father was a cobbler. He died when I was young and I took over his shop. He was a simple man and he made simple shoes. But I found that the more work I put into my shoes, the more people wanted them. You know, fine leather, ornamentation, detailing, and time. Time, most of all. Dozens of hours spent on a single pair.
— Quality takes time.
— Yes. I imagine you've worn a year of someone's life on your back.

— Well, I tell them no one's special, and they think I'm special for telling them so.
— Perhaps they're right.
— It would be comforting to believe that, wouldn't it?

I serve the gods. The gods demand justice.

Hypocrisy is a boil. Lancing a boil is never pleasant.

— Why no shoes?
— Because I gave them away to someone who needed them more. We all do that. It stops us from forgetting what we really are.