The morning mist wrapped around Flea Bottom like a shroud.
Marge stuffed the last bit of wood chips into the stove, watching the pitiful flame lick the bottom of the pot.
In the pot simmered yesterday's leftover beans and half a stinking fish head, which she had scavenged after squatting by the Blackwater Rush for two hours, nearly being caught by the patrolling Gold Cloaks as a fish thief.
"Mama, hungry."
Her young daughter, Lina, tugged at her skirt, her eyes bulging wide, looking quite terrifying.
She was already five years old, but as thin as a child of three or four, her ribs protruding one by one, her skin so thin that the blue veins beneath were visible.
"Wait a little longer, the bread is coming," Marge said, words she didn't even believe herself.
She looked out the window; at the end of the alley, the shutters of Tom's bakery were still tightly closed. Usually, by this time, the aroma of the first batch of brown bread would have already wafted out.
Since the arrival of the man known as "Lord Corleone," Lina had never gone hungry again.
But a week ago, those men in golden cloaks took over Flea Bottom. Since then, Lina hadn't smelled the scent of bread again, and all of Flea Bottom seemed to have reverted to its former state.
A few days ago, Marge's husband, Karl, broke his leg at the docks.
The foreman dismissed him with five copper pennies. Now Karl lay in bed, raving with fever every day, his wound oozing pus.
Marge had begged the Gold Cloaks to find a maester, but the young soldier only sneered, "A dockworker wants a maester?"
She had cried for a long time, because when Sir Corleone was still there, Flea Bottom had its own clinic, and it charged almost only at cost. If one truly had no money, they could keep a tab or pay with labor, like cleaning streets or moving things.
Now the clinic had been taken over by the Gold Cloaks and turned into a "Security Post."
The Lannister red lion banner hung at the door, and inside sat soldiers in golden cloaks. There was no longer the smell of herbs, only the stench of sweat and ale.
"Mama, look," Lina pointed out the window.
Marge turned her head and saw a crowd beginning to gather at the mouth of the alley. First three or five, then a dozen. Women carried empty baskets, children walked uneasily barefoot in the mud, and a few old men leaned against the base of the walls, their eyes hollow.
"Tom! Open up!" A stout woman began pounding on the bakery's wooden shutters. "It's already light out!"
The wooden shutters opened a crack from the inside, revealing half of a pale face.
"Today... still no bread," Tom said in a low voice.
As soon as these words were spoken, the crowd immediately became restless.
Marge quickly picked up Lina and squeezed to the front. "What's going on? Didn't you say yesterday that flour would arrive today?"
Seeing the expectant looks in their eyes, Tom sighed and opened the shutters completely.
Behind him, it was empty. Flour sacks were piled in the corner, all empty. The stove was cold, without even a spark.
"The flour can't be brought in," Tom said. "The Gold Cloaks say that over by the Riverroad... there are bandits."
"Bullshit!" a one-armed man in the crowd roared. His name was Dyke, a former soldier who had lost an arm in the Battle of the Blackwater.
"I saw three grain wagons enter through the Lion Gate with my own eyes yesterday afternoon! They were piled higher than a mountain!"
Hearing this, Tom could only explain with a bitter face, "That was white flour for the Red Keep and Silk Street. No new grain has been brought into Flea Bottom for a long time."
These words were like a torch thrown into a haystack, instantly igniting the people's resentment.
Dyke pushed aside those in front of him and rushed to the window, roaring in anger, "I fought for the King! I bled at the Blackwater!"
"But now I can't even get a bite of bread! Didn't the Gold Cloaks promise that everything would be better after they took over? When Lord Corleone was here, all of us could fill our bellies!"
"I said, there's no flour!" Tom shrank back, but soon raised his voice again, though it was trembling. "If you want to eat, go find the Gold Cloaks! Go find the Hand of the King! What's the use of asking me?"
Such an answer clearly could not satisfy the people. The crowd erupted in even more angry roars.
"Bread! We want bread!!"
"The damned Gold Cloaks want to starve us to death!"
"Go find them! Let's go make a scene at the The Hall of Order!"
The surrounding people were filled with righteous indignation, but Marge just sat weakly on the ground, clutching her daughter tightly, as tears flowed uncontrollably.
"Mama?"
Lina didn't quite understand what was happening. She looked up and asked in a small voice, "Will we still be able to eat bread?"
Marge held her daughter tight and did not answer.
Watching the angry crowd gradually gathering at the mouth of the alley, she suddenly remembered an afternoon two months ago.
That day she had taken the feverish Lina to the clinic. It was Sir Corleone himself who treated the child. Three days later, Lina's fever broke.
"How much, milord?" Marge had asked then, her hands shaking, for she had only seven copper pennies on her entire person.
Corleone looked at her for a long time, then said, "When your husband's injury is healed, just have him come to the The Hall of Order to help move goods for three days."
That was not charity.
It was a trade, a fair trade, but one that allowed everyone to live with their heads held high.
And now?
Her husband was still lying in bed waiting to die, her daughter was so hungry she was nothing but skin and bones, and the Gold Cloaks said all this was a "necessary reorganization."
Marge slowly stood up and brushed the dust off her skirt. She looked toward the mouth of the alley, where more than thirty people had already gathered, and more were coming.
"Let's go," she said to Lina in her arms.
"Where to, Mama?"
"To find the people responsible for this."
Iron Street.
It was named for the blacksmith shops and weapon stores lining both sides of the street. As a pawnshop, "Hammer and Gold" seemed somewhat out of place here.
The pawnshop owner, Lasso, was a lean Braavosi in his fifties, wearing a deep purple velvet coat with three rings set with different colored gemstones on his fingers.
In Braavos, this represented that he was simultaneously a "Keyholder," a "Witness of Covenants," and a "Risk-Sharer."
But at this moment, as the wealthiest man on Iron Street, he was using a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bald forehead.
Because three people were sitting across from him.
A Gold Cloak captain, a robed scribe, and... a fully armed knight in red armor—Tybert Husband.
"Milord, the accounts... the accounts really don't add up." Lasso spread out three thick parchment ledgers before him, the pages covered in numbers and symbols.
The scribe frowned at the symbols and said bluntly, "I don't understand this."
"I can translate," Lasso swallowed. "Simply put, Sir Corleone... oh no, that traitor Vito Corleone, four days before he left King's Landing, borrowed eight thousand Gold Dragons from me under the name of 'commercial working capital.'"
"He used twelve properties and warehouses in Flea Bottom as collateral."
"These are the mortgage contracts. Each one has his signature, thumbprint, and the signatures of witnesses."
Hearing this, the scribe took them to examine, his brow furrowing deeply.
The Gold Cloak asked curiously, "Is there a problem?"
"Look here, Captain." The scribe pointed to a few lines of small print in the third paragraph of the contract. "This clause: if the borrower loses control of the collateral for involuntary reasons—including but not limited to war, confiscation, requisition, or administrative enforcement—then the rights and obligations of this debt shall automatically transfer to the party in actual control of the collateral."
"
The captain didn't understand. "What does that mean?"
Hearing this, Lasso explained with a bitter face, "It means that if the Gold Cloaks confiscated these properties, then you owe me eight thousand Gold Dragons."
"Absurd!" The Gold Cloak was instantly enraged, his hand going to his sword hilt. "We owe you eight thousand Gold Dragons without doing anything? Are you joking?"
"You greedy fellow must be lying to me. Believe it or not, I'll haul you back to the Gold Cloak prison for interrogation!"
"You could do that, milord, but..."
"
Lasso was startled, but opened another ledger. "The total debt isn't just with my shop."
"Vito Corleone used the same method to borrow money from thirteen pawnshops in King's Landing. The amounts borrowed from each were different, and the collateral was different, but the contract terms were basically the same."
"The total debt... exceeds sixty-two thousand Gold Dragons!"
"With all due respect, even your superior, Ser Adam Marbrand, couldn't possibly arrest all of us, could he?"
As soon as these words were spoken, the room fell into a deathly silence.
What does sixty-two thousand Gold Dragons represent?
Enough to equip an army of three thousand men, including armor, weapons, warhorses, and three months' worth of supplies.
Equivalent to one-fifth of the construction cost of the Royal Fleet!
Half a year's tax revenue for all of King's Landing!
The captain's face turned beet red, and he shouted, "Impossible! Absolutely impossible!"
"He's just a thug from Flea Bottom. Where would he get so much property for collateral?"
It was no wonder he was so exasperated, because the other party was quite right; even if he could take Lasso back and use certain "methods" to forcibly default on this 8,000 Gold Dragon debt, the Gold Cloaks couldn't arrest the owners of all the pawnshops.
It must be understood that although these people were not nobles, they almost all had nobles backing them.
Or rather, they were merely the front-facing "white gloves" for the nobility.
Never mind Ser Adam Marbrand; even Tywin would have to weigh the impact of arresting so many people!
Hearing the captain's questioning, Lasso dragged an oak chest from under the table and opened it, revealing a thick stack of land deeds and property titles. "These are the details of Vito Corleone's collateral."
The scribe hurriedly took the documents and flipped through them, but the more he read, the more his hands trembled.
Seventeen in all!
Every single one was genuine, with clear seals, complete signatures, and verifiable registration numbers.
"These..."
"...these properties used as collateral for over sixty thousand Gold Dragons are, from the perspective of lending rules... completely reasonable."
"Reasonable my ass!" the captain roared. "This is obviously a fucking trap!"
He had come today on the orders of Ser Adam. If he couldn't even handle this small matter, how would he report back!
Thinking more and more angrily, the captain simply grabbed Lasso's collar and asked coldly, "Who are the witnesses?"
Hearing this, Lasso flipped directly to the last page of the contract and pointed to several signatures:
Herber Lake.
Sir Balman Bych.
Jaime Lannister.
They were all fucking nobles.
Even... the seal of the High Septon of the Faith was on it!
The Gold Cloak captain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Only now did he finally understand why Ser Adam's eyes were full of sympathy when he sent him here.
"The contract also stipulates,"
Seeing this, Lasso added with a hint of mockery in his voice, "that if the debt is overdue and unpaid, the interest will accumulate at one percent per day. Today is the... seventh day of the delinquency."
One percent per day on a principal of sixty-two thousand is six hundred and twenty Gold Dragons every day.
This is the fucking equivalent of a year's wages for a hundred Gold Cloaks!
And this debt, in theory, should now be repaid by the Iron Throne, which has taken over the collateral.
"Vito Corleone is truly an interesting fellow."
Just as the captain felt his future was pitch black, Ser Tybert Husband spoke up.
His tone was somewhat playful. Several people turned their gaze toward this old knight of House Lannister.
"You... are you leaving?"
Seeing Tybert turn and walk straight toward the door, the captain couldn't help but ask, "But our mission isn't finished yet, Ser!"
"This is none of my business."
AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite
Taibote glanced back at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, as if he were not in the least bit anxious: "I am a knight. If I cannot complete the mission, I can simply return to the westerlands; I have my own lands."
"Now, I am going to have a drink. Good luck to you both."
In the Red Keep, the dungeons never saw the sun throughout the year.
In the third-level interrogation room, various instruments of torture hung on the walls. Most were rusted, but a few were clearly new, and branding irons glowed red-hot in the brazier.
Luna sat on a wooden chair, her hands and feet unbound—a deliberate arrangement by the interrogator to demonstrate "favorable treatment."
She was thirty-five, her brown hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. She wore a dark blue coarse cloth dress with a grey apron over it, looking less like a prostitute and more like a market vendor or a washerwoman.
In fact, that was exactly what she was now.
In Flea Bottom, she was responsible for organizing over twenty women to mend, wash, and produce simple textiles—all tasks arranged by Sir Corleone.
"Mistress Luna." The interrogator's voice was very gentle. "We are just having a simple talk today. You need not be nervous."
Luna did not speak; she only looked at him, her gaze very calm.
"We know of your past."
The interrogator flipped through a file. "You were once a prostitute at 'Nightingale's Song' on Silk Street and served many guests. Later, you became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter named Little Lysa, is that correct?"
Upon hearing this, Luna's fingers tightened slightly, but she showed no other reaction.
"It is not easy for a prostitute to raise a child." The interrogator continued, his voice carrying just the right amount of sympathy. "The child was often ill, and you could not afford the fees for a maester, so you sought help from the 'High Sparrow,' who was still preaching at the time. Some rather unpleasant things happened then…"
"Stop beating around the bush, my lord." Hearing the other party keep bringing up her daughter, Luna brushed her hair back and spoke calmly. "If you want something, please just say it directly."
"We have received some… testimonies." The interrogator narrowed his eyes at her, his smile becoming even more gentle. "Some say that on the night Sir Corleone rescued you, he did something inappropriate to you."
At these words, the interrogation room fell silent.
Luna looked at the interrogator for a long time, then she smiled, with a hint of pity.
"My lord, do you know what happened that night?"
"Please, tell me."
"That night, after Lysa fell asleep, Sir Corleone told me to go rest as well. He gave me a separate room with clean sheets and blankets. He said, 'Get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow we shall discuss future matters.'"
"I lay on the bed, unable to sleep. I kept waiting, waiting for the door to be pushed open, waiting for him to enter, waiting for him to demand that I do something, just like other men."
Luna's voice was calm. "I waited until dawn, but the door never opened."
"The next morning, Sir Corleone had bread and hot soup prepared for me. I had not eaten anything that good in a long time."
"After I finished, he said, 'Luna, I see your fingers are nimble, so your needlework should be good. There are many women in Flea Bottom who need work, but they do not know what to do or how to organize. Would you be willing to help them?'"
She looked at the interrogator. "That is what he wanted. Not my body, but my ability."
The interrogator was silent for a moment, then said, "But someone has testified…"
"Who?" Luna interrupted him. "The madam from Silk Street because I took away several girls who no longer wished to be prostitutes, or those peers who are jealous that I can now earn a living with my own hands?"
Her voice remained calm, but every word was powerful. "My lord, I was a prostitute on Silk Street for twelve years. I know what men want."
"I know what kind of gaze is desire and what kind is charity, but when Sir Corleone looked at me, there was neither."
"He respected me, gave me work, and let me labor!"
Hearing this, the interrogator wanted to say more, but Luna had already stood up. "If you want me to accuse him of rape, you can tie me up and use torture—branding irons, whips, anything will do."
"You can threaten to harm my daughter. She is eight years old now and is learning from the nuns at the church in Duskendale."
Her voice began to tremble, but not from fear. "You can do all these things, but I tell you, my lord, even if you cut out my tongue, it will never say the words you want to hear!"
"Because some words, if spoken, are a betrayal of oneself!"
"And I…" She took a deep breath. "Do not want to betray myself ever again."
After finishing, she sat back in the chair, placed her hands on her knees, and said nothing more.
The interrogator looked at the parchment in front of him, looking at the "evidence of crime" prepared on it.
Corleone · Rape · Luna · Date · Location · Witness…
The witness column was blank.
Because there were no witnesses.
Only lies.
Not far away, next door.
There were no windows here, no torches, only a dim oil lamp on the wall with the wick trimmed very short, barely illuminating the area within three paces of the rack.
Iggo was hung on the rack.
A rope passed through an iron ring on the ceiling, suspending him in mid-air, with his toes barely able to touch the ground.
This posture would cause the shoulders to gradually dislocate, making breathing increasingly difficult. The jailers were very skilled at controlling the height, just enough to make the prisoner suffer, but not so much that he would die too quickly.
He had been hung here for two days.
The Dothraki's bare upper body was covered in wounds; his chest, abdomen, and back all had charred scars, and in some places, the flesh was turned outward.
His right shoulder was dislocated, and his left knee was swollen like a ball.
Before long, the door opened. Logan walked in.
He was short and stout, his height only reaching an average person's shoulder, but he was very broad, like a walking wall.
He wore the typical jailer's attire, his hair greasy and plastered against his scalp, with a few strands hanging messily over his forehead.
"Still alive?" Logan's voice was hoarse. He spoke the Common Tongue with a thick accent from the lower levels of King's Landing, making it somewhat slurred.
Iggo did not answer.
His head hung low, a few strands of his braid coming loose and sticking to his blood-stained face. His eyes were half-closed, but his pupils contracted slightly in the dim light.
Logan walked to the wall, scooped a ladle of water from a bucket, and walked over to Iggo.
"Want some water?"
Iggo still did not move.
Logan tilted the ladle, pouring the water onto the branding iron wound on Iggo's chest.
"Hiss~~~"
Iggo's body tightened violently, his muscles bulging, and the iron chains rattled. It was saltwater!
But he did not cry out, only drew in a breath through his clenched teeth.
"Not bad." Logan nodded, as if praising him. "The Dothraki are very strong."
He threw the ladle back into the bucket and walked to the wooden table by the wall.
On the table were several tools: pliers, a small hammer, a thin iron skewer, and a saw.
Logan picked up the pliers, weighed them in his hand, put them down, and finally picked up the thin iron skewer.
Without a word, he began the torture directly.
Bit by bit, very slowly, the iron skewer was pushed along
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