By the time Ser Adam Marbrand arrived at the outskirts of Flea Bottom on his warhorse, it was nearly midnight. However, looking at the pitch-black and utterly silent slums before him, he only felt a sense of absurdity.
Where were the people?
Where were the torches?
He had scoured the city to bring two thousand Gold Cloaks and two hundred Lannister guards to surround this place. This was a force sufficient to launch a proper war, and he was planning to execute the Hand's order to suppress the rebellion!
But where was the rebellion?
The entirety of Flea Bottom was silent... it was like a corpse that had just drawn its last breath.
Only the wail of the wind through the narrow alleys remained, as if mourning for someone.
"My lord, something isn't right."
His adjutant, Ser Osfryd, lowered his voice, his left hand resting on his sword hilt as he frowned. "It's too quiet."
Nonsense!
Adam rolled his eyes at him, thinking to himself that he obviously knew something was wrong.
He had fought for over a decade, suppressed bandits in the Westerlands, risked his life against the Ironborn, and even personally killed over a dozen people during the Battle of the Blackwater!
But Adam had never seen a situation like this.
He was prepared for a major confrontation!
But... where were the enemies?
Feeling lost as he looked around with sword drawn, he had no choice but to ask the commander of the blockade unit that had arrived first: "How is the blockade line? Has anyone tried to break out?"
"No, my lord." A centurion named Harry shook his head. "Just two hours ago, they were still gathered in the streets with torches."
"Then, for some unknown reason, they suddenly began to disperse, and very orderly at that. In less than half an hour, the streets were empty."
"An orderly retreat," Adam murmured, his brow furrowing.
A mob doesn't retreat in an orderly fashion; once those fellows disperse, they scurry like rats, trampling over each other.
This meant that there was a command system within Flea Bottom, and perhaps even...
...there were the enemy's eyes among the troops he had brought.
Perhaps the Hand was right; that fellow Vito Corleone was not only still alive but also firmly in control of the situation.
"Strengthen the blockade." After a moment's thought, Adam ordered, his voice sounding exceptionally loud in the silence. "Add another layer of sentries to all exits, reinforce them with sandbags and wooden fences. Archers, get on the roofs; there must be someone at every high point. I want Flea Bottom so tight that not even a rat can escape!"
"Yes, my lord!"
The order was quickly passed down.
The soldiers began to get busy, moving sandbags and setting up fences, while crossbowmen climbed onto shaky roofs carrying heavy crossbows and quivers.
All weapons were aimed at Flea Bottom, yet there wasn't even a hint of movement inside.
It was like a punch hitting cotton—utterly stifling.
Adam recalled Lord Tywin's final words before leaving the Red Keep: "Rebellion is like a plague; you must cut off the source of infection at the first sign of symptoms."
But... now the symptoms had disappeared on their own.
What should be done?
Meanwhile, inside the The Hall of Order, Corleone had just finished listening to Rorge's report.
.
"The Gold Cloak reinforcements have arrived."
"It matches the intelligence we received perfectly. About two thousand men, plus roughly two hundred Lannister guards, led by Adam Marbrand himself."
Hearing this, Corleone nodded.
Spread out before him was a hand-drawn map of Flea Bottom, marked with charcoal to show alleys, wells, underground passages, and potential defensive points.
[Insight Lv3] allowed him to see details on this crude map that ordinary people would overlook.
"How are our 'friends' reacting?"
Hearing this, Rorge grinned, revealing jagged yellow teeth, his eyes gleaming with excitement: "They've all received the signal that 'The Black Hand Reaches Out.' According to your previous list and instructions... those who need to be purged won't escape, not a single one!"
"It turns out you arranged so much before you left, Ser. Now everyone has received the message, the Black Hand"
"has already reached out!"
At those words, Corleone also smiled—a faint smile, but a genuine one.
During his months as the chief special agent of the small council, he had done far more than just cleaning up Flea Bottom and establishing order.
Using the authority Tywin gave him, Corleone had systematically infiltrated the City Watch through the The Mafia.
He hadn't attempted to bribe high-ranking officers on a large scale—those people were too conspicuous and their price was too high. Instead, he targeted figures of actual power in the mid-to-low levels, such as squad leaders responsible for specific patrol areas, clerks managing logistics, and captains of the city gates.
These people had meager pay and no hope for promotion, yet they often played a decisive role in actual operations.
For the gamblers, he had Old Moss "accidentally" get to know them at the gambling tables and then provide "interest-free loans."
For those with sick family members, he personally went or sent his doctors to provide free treatment.
For those purely in need of money, the The Mafia provided them with "legitimate dividends."
For those who were dissatisfied and felt suppressed by their superiors, Corleone could even act as a bridge for them to resolve conflicts!
Most importantly, he never asked them to betray their posts immediately; he only established friendships and made them owe him a favor.
Until now.
Though it appeared on the surface that the The Mafia had been broken up, Corleone had already instructed all core personnel to maintain a low profile and "disappear" in a timely manner long before leaving King's Landing.
However, after he left, some people on the list chose to betray him under pressure or the temptation of profit.
Some actively cooperated with the Gold Cloaks to suppress Flea Bottom and crack down on the The Mafia remnants; some sold out civilians or low-level members who had once been under their protection; and others, after receiving the recall or testing signal of "The Black Hand Reaches Out," chose silence or to inform on him.
These people were no longer "friends."
If he had truly died at sea, then perhaps the The Mafia really would have disbanded, and the favors and interests extended would never have been recovered.
But now... everyone knew that Vito Corleone was back.
Alive.
Tapping the table, Corleone saw that the hour was right and turned to Rorge to give his instructions: "Send the word out. Act according to the plan."
"Let Ser Adam understand exactly who is in control of the land beneath his feet."
"Understood."
With a chuckle, Rorge turned and disappeared from the The Hall of Order.
After he left, Corleone went downstairs alone into a secret cellar. On the wall hung a set of shining white armor.
The armor was polished to a high sheen, gleaming brilliantly in the candlelight.
This had once belonged to Ser Meryn Trant.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold metal surface.
"Soon."
Soon, the time had reached midnight.
Squad leader "Gap-tooth" Huck was a veteran. Two months ago, his son had contracted a severe lung disease, and it was Corleone himself who saved him with expensive medicinal herbs.
Huck had knelt in gratitude at the time, swearing to be "at your service whenever called upon."
However, after the news of Corleone's "death" arrived and the Gold Cloaks took full control of Flea Bottom, Huck was among the first to jump out and show his loyalty.
Not only did he lead his men to severely suppress any talk reminiscent of the "old order," but he also proactively reported three locations suspected of being The Mafia meeting spots.
Huck was in a good mood.
Blockading Flea Bottom was a grueling task, but the profits were handsome. In the past few days, he had already collected over twenty Silver Stags in "protection money" from several shops.
.
He calculated that after this mission was over, he would go to Silk Street to find that red-haired prostitute and have a few days of fun.
"Stay sharp, everyone!" Huck shouted to the six soldiers at the checkpoint. "Keep your eyes peeled! Not even a fly gets past!"
"Yes, Captain!" the soldiers answered in unison, their voices echoing in the silent street.
Huck nodded with satisfaction and walked to the base of the wall by the checkpoint, unbuckling his belt to relieve himself.
But halfway through, he suddenly felt a cold sensation on his neck, like being stung by a bee.
Huck wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
Warm liquid gushed from his neck and flowed into his collar. His vision began to blur, and a very familiar voice reached his ears.
"The debt is paid, Huck."
In the haze, Huck seemed to see his own shadow on the wall, with a man standing behind him, his arm wrapped around his neck in a gesture as intimate as an embrace.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Five minutes later, the soldiers from the checkpoint finally walked down.
They saw their captain sitting against the wall, his head tilted to one side, his eyes open but devoid of life.
On the wall beside him, written in blood, were the words—The The Mafia sends their regards.
The handwriting was neat, even somewhat elegant.
The soldier showed no surprise; he only gave a light chuckle, then pulled a cold Black Hand Badge from his pocket and tossed it onto Huck's blood-soaked chest.
Then, he let out a loud scream...
Before long, Adam Marbrand received the report and rushed to the scene.
He jumped off his horse, pushed through the spectating soldiers, and crouched down to examine the already cold corpse, his face turned ashen.
"Who found him?" He stood up, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers present.
"It... it was me, my lord."
"Did you see the killer?"
"No. By the time I arrived, the captain was already like this."
"Did you hear any sound?"
The soldier shook his head. "Nothing at all. It was very quiet, my lord."
Hearing this, Adam looked at the others. "What about you? Six of you were here, and your captain was killed twenty paces away, yet you saw nothing? Heard nothing?"
At these words, the six soldiers looked at each other and then all shook their heads.
"No, my lord.
"We really didn't hear anything."
"It was too quiet; we thought the captain was just relieving himself...
"
Such a uniform response caused Adam to frown and stare at their faces, searching for any sign of a lie.
But he could see nothing; they appeared to be just a group of terrified, ordinary soldiers.
But it didn't make sense.
Huck was no novice; he was a veteran of several battles. Even in an ambush, he shouldn't have been taken down without making a sound.
Unless the killer was someone he knew—someone he had no reason to guard against.
Or... the killer was among these six soldiers.
Shaking his head, Adam immediately suppressed that terrifying thought.
He couldn't think like that.
As an excellent commander, he knew very well that once you start doubting your own soldiers, the battle is lost before it even begins.
"Increase the vigilance." He took a deep breath and issued his final order: "Double the manpower at all checkpoints. No one is to act alone. If you spot any suspicious persons, kill them on sight."
"Yes, My Lord!"
However, less than ten minutes later, Adam received a second report of an assassination.
The location was a temporary command post.
It was originally the backyard of a cheap tavern, now converted into a rest area capable of housing thirty soldiers.
The centurion in charge here was named Eric, nicknamed 'The Anvil.' He was square-built and fierce, known for his caution and discipline.
But few knew that Eric had a secret vice... gambling.
A few weeks ago, debt collectors had nearly skinned him alive in public until Corleone's men 'happened' to pass by and settled his debts for him.
But this incident became a knot in Eric's heart; he was always afraid that one day his upright self would become an accomplice to the The Mafia.
When Corleone left King's Landing, Eric felt no regret; instead, he was secretly relieved. He became even more impartial and worked particularly hard in the suppression of Flea Bottom, trying to wash away any potential stain.
He thought this would prove his innocence and loyalty.
As the midnight bell tolled, Eric stood in the center of the courtyard for roll call.
But while he was speaking, a soldier behind him who was checking equipment seemed to trip over something, stumbling into Eric's back.
Eric felt something hard press against the small of his back; it didn't hurt much.
He was about to flare up in anger when his whole body suddenly went stiff. A sensation of paralysis instantly spread through him. He wanted to shout, but his throat could only manage a gurgle.
All the soldiers watched him, watched as the centurion pitched forward, stiff as a board.
"Captain?!"
At the sudden turn of events, the nearest soldiers rushed forward to flip him over.
Turning him over, they saw no obvious wound on Eric's neck, but his face was purple, and he had already stopped breathing.
His right hand was clenched into a tight fist; it took the soldiers a great deal of effort to pry it open.
In his palm... was a Black Hand Badge!
When Adam arrived at the scene again, his face looked even worse than before.
"Speak." He stood by Eric's body, his voice cold. "Thirty men in one courtyard, and your captain is assassinated right in the center. How did the killer get in?"
Silence.
A long, suffocating silence.
"My Lord." A young officer finally spoke, his voice trembling. "We... we really didn't see anything."
"The Captain was speaking, and then he just collapsed."
"He just collapsed?"
Adam pointed at the body on the ground and questioned sharply, "There are thirty of you, and not one saw anyone get near him?"
"No, My Lord."
"Truly, no one."
"I swear it, My Lord."
Again, such a uniform response. Adam scrutinized their faces one by one, but not a single person showed any obvious flaw.
Or perhaps... they were all flaws?
It was impossible.
Unless the killer was among these thirty people, and everyone had chosen silence.
The so-called 'didn't see' was actually'saw but won't say.'
At this thought, Adam felt a chill rise up his spine.
He remembered a time before when Corleone had half-jokingly said to him: "Ser Adam, do you know how many people in King's Landing owe me favors?"
At the time, Adam thought it was a boast.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
"Search." He ordered through gritted teeth, his voice somewhat raspy. "Search every single one of them!"
The search lasted half an hour, and the result was nothing.
Of course it was nothing.
If the killer really was among them, they would have disposed of the evidence long ago.
As he left the courtyard, Adam's steps were a bit unsteady.
Because he felt that things were beginning to become utterly absurd.
Exactly how many people had Corleone bought off?
A third?
Half?
Or... even more?
"My Lord?" Seeing that his expression was off, the adjutant beside him asked cautiously, "Should we conduct an internal search to see who has had contact with the The Mafia?"
Adam stared at him.
This adjutant had been personally appointed to him by the Queen Regent, said to be one of her confidants.
But now, looking into the adjutant's eyes, Adam suddenly felt his skin crawl.
Could this fellow be one of them too?
Could he be the one to put a knife to my throat tonight?
"No." Adam forced himself to calm down and said firmly, "Do not create more suspicion. Now is not the time for an internal purge. We must strengthen our external defenses."
Watching Adam walk away, an inexplicable smile played at the corners of Ser Osfryd's mouth.
Touching the Black Hand Badge in his breast pocket, he knew very well that the seeds of suspicion had been planted. They would take root in the dark of night and sprout in the silence.
The assassinations... continued for the entire night.
By dawn, the confirmed dead among officers of squad leader rank and above had reached eleven, with three injured or missing.
Not a single case was witnessed; not a single killer was captured.
At dawn, as a sliver of light began to appear on the horizon, Adam Marbrand stood at the forefront of the command post, looking at the still-silent...
Flea Bottom.
From initial shock and suspicion to later numbness and the fear of falling asleep... he hadn't closed his eyes all night.
His eyes were bloodshot, his temples throbbed with pain, and his mouth felt dry and bitter.
Worse still, he was hungry.
Last night's dinner had been a piece of black bread hard as a stone and a bowl of thin bean soup.
The bread was mixed with visible bran and sand; Adam had chipped a molar while eating it, and that tooth was still throbbing now.
The bean soup was lukewarm, and the beans weren't cooked soft; after drinking it, it felt heavy in his stomach, like a bag of pebbles.
"Why hasn't the troop had breakfast!"
Seeing the adjutant walking over from the rear with a grim expression, even someone with Adam's temperament found it hard to restrain himself.
Hearing this, Osfryd Kettleblack sighed. "My Lord, the logistics department says... they've encountered some problems."
"What problems?"
"The grain convoy from Rosby says they encountered bandit attacks on the Kingsroad, which delayed their journey. They won't arrive until dawn at the earliest."
"Bandits?" At these words, Adam's voice rose several notches. "Rosby is only a few leagues from King's Landing! What fucking bandits would dare attack a military grain convoy so close to the capital!"
But facing his interrogation, the adjutant just lowered his head and continued to reply, "But the logistics officer insists it was bandits. He says the drivers and guards all said the same thing."
Hearing this, Adam wanted to continue raging, but he was too tired—so tired he didn't even have the strength to get angry.
Or perhaps... he was worried that if he pushed too hard, would this fellow in front of him...
What a fucking mess!
Sitting down sullenly, Adam felt that he, as the Commander of the City Watch, had never been so humiliated. Just how many people in King's Landing had that fellow Vito Corleone bought off?
"Tell the soldiers to ration their food."
Ultimately, he could only sigh. "Halve the morning rations. We'll make it up once the supplies arrive."
"Yes, My Lord."
After the adjutant withdrew, Adam looked back at Flea Bottom. It was still silent, as if the riot had ended. But at that moment, the wind changed.
A morning breeze blew from the direction of Flea Bottom, penetrating the Gold Cloaks' line, bringing with it a... fragrance?
How could a fragrance come from Flea Bottom? Was this a joke?
Adam shook his head, thinking he was hallucinating, but his nose instinctively sniffed hard, and his eyes suddenly widened.
That's right, it was real!
Bread!
How was this possible? Hadn't they said Flea Bottom had run out of food?
Filled with uncertainty and alarm, Adam quickly climbed to a high point and pulled out his Myrish lens to look.
He saw that deep within Flea Bottom, cooking smoke was faintly rising from countless places.
Not just one or two houses, but dozens, hundreds!
After a silent night, while the City Watch was still going hungry, this damned slum was actually wafting the scent of food in the early morning!
This was more provocative than any riot!
"Where did they get the food?" Adam muttered to himself, unable to believe what he was seeing. "We clearly blockaded all the exits..."
Before he could finish, he saw an even more shocking sight.
At the mouth of an alley less than a hundred meters from the The Hall of Order, an old man walked out slowly, holding a... meat pie?
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