The golden pastry wrapped around the meat filling, steaming hot, with grease dripping down the old man's fingers.
From Adam's perspective, that damn old fellow was standing at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the wall, eating mouthful after mouthful.
With every bite, his face showed an expression of immense satisfaction.
Coincidentally, the old man seemed to know he was being watched; he even looked up at the Gold Cloaks in the distance, locking eyes with Adam, and then... grinned and took another huge bite!
Adam's hand holding the Myrish lens trembled first, then he felt a spasm in his stomach.
It wasn't disgust, but a violent reaction brought on by hunger.
He, Adam Marbrand, the dignified commander of the City Watch, heir to Ashemark, and a renowned knight, was starving here, while that old thing from Flea Bottom, who didn't have a copper to his name, was eating a steaming hot meat pie!
And he was doing it right in front of him, a provocation!
You son of a bitch, you're being a bit too disrespectful!
"My lord!"
Just then, a soldier's exclamation came from below: "Look over there!"
Adam looked in the direction the man was pointing.
He saw a woman on the roof of another alley, holding a steaming bowl of soup and sipping it slowly with a wooden spoon.
Beside her lay half a loaf of white bread, its texture soft and appearing exceptionally white in the morning light; at a glance, it looked far more delicious than the piece of black bread Adam had eaten last night.
Not far away, several children squatted by a doorway, each holding a grilled sausage, their mouths covered in grease from eating.
What the hell... was going on?
The poor of Flea Bottom were eating breakfast while the Gold Cloaks were starving?
Was this still King's Landing?
"Send men to investigate!"
Resisting the urge to smash the Myrish lens, Adam shouted down: "Find out which houses are cooking and confiscate all their grain!"
However, although the order was passed down, its execution was sluggish.
Because the soldiers didn't dare enter the alleys at all; last night's assassinations had made them believe that invisible Reapers were hidden in those twisting, dark passageways.
Confiscate the civilians' food now?
What a joke!
"My lord," a veteran soldier said boldly to the officer who came to deliver the order, "the brothers are tired and hungry; going in now...
...something might happen."
"This is an order!" the officer roared.
"But an order can't send us to our deaths for nothing," the veteran muttered. "Look over there."
He pointed deep into the alley.
The messenger looked and saw several men standing in the shadows, holding sharpened wooden sticks, hammers, shovels, and such, staring coldly this way.
They didn't speak, but the meaning in their eyes couldn't be clearer...
Try coming in and see.
The officer flinched and looked back up at Adam. The commander stood there, his face ashen.
In the end, only two squads were forced to head inside.
They walked into the alley with trepidation, knocking on doors one by one.
"Open up! Everyone open up! We're searching for contraband grain!"
The door opened to a white-haired old man. The soldiers rushed in, but the house was empty; there was nothing.
"Where's the grain?" the soldier asked.
"What grain?" The old man looked bewildered. "We haven't eaten for two days."
"Then what was that smell just now? I saw you all eating meat pies and bread!"
"Oh, that was the Stefan family next door, but they've already finished eating."
*Burp*—before he could finish, a loud burp smelling of meat escaped.
Hearing this, the soldiers looked at each other, wanting nothing more than to stab this lying old thing to death. But considering last night's assassinations, they didn't dare act rashly and could only stomp off to the house next door in a rage.
The door was locked and wouldn't open. Peering through the crack, they saw leftover dishes on the table, but no one was inside.
On to the next house.
Same answer, same empty house.
After searching for an hour, the two squads returned empty-handed. Not only had they failed to collect a single grain, but they also returned full of resentment.
"They're playing us," one soldier complained to his companion. "The grain must be hidden in basements or the The Hall of Order. If we search like this, we won't find it by next year."
"Then what? Keep starving?"
"How the hell should I know? Do you have the guts to pick a fight with the The Mafia?"
"I'm so hungry I could eat a cow..."
As time passed, the soldiers' complaints grew louder and louder.
Fortunately, as noon approached, the logistics officer finally appeared with the delayed supply caravan, greeted by dozens of pairs of eyes turning green with hunger.
"Just this?" Adam looked at the unloaded supplies—a few bags of moldy black flour, several barrels of suspicious salted meat, and dozens of bundles of hay for horses—his face filled with displeasure.
"My lord, the people at the granary said..." The logistics officer wiped his sweat. "They said grain has been tight lately and they must prioritize the Red Keep and the Noble District. This is everything that could be allocated."
"Bullshit!"
Suppressing the urge to set the supplies on fire, Adam stared at him and asked, word by word, "How much did you take?"
At those words, the logistics officer's face turned deathly pale. "My lord! I... I didn't...
"6
"How much?" Adam raised his voice. "How much money did Corleone give you to swap the army's rations for this garbage?
"
"I didn't! My lord, I swear...
" Adam drew his sword, the tip pressing against the logistics officer's throat. "Tell the truth, or I'll kill you right now and charge you with treason."
The logistics officer collapsed to the ground, tears and snot flowing together. "One hundred—one hundred gold dragons. He said he'd give another hundred once it was done. My lord, my daughter is sick and needs money to see a maester. I—I had no choice—"
Adam closed his eyes.
He felt a deep, bone-deep sense of powerlessness.
Corleone's network was simply everywhere.
From the lowest soldiers to the middle-tier officers, and then to the logistics system.
That fellow was truly too cunning; he never fought a head-on battle but merely gave a gentle push at every joint, causing the entire command system to paralyze itself.
"Lock him up." Adam sheathed his sword, his voice weary. "Trial after the war is over."
The logistics officer was dragged away, but the problem wasn't solved.
The soldiers were still hungry, while the cooking smoke of Flea Bottom was still curling upward, and the scent of meat still drifted in the air.
Adam walked to the entrance of the command post, looking at the soldiers sitting or lying outside.
Their faces were weary, their eyes hollow; some looked toward Flea Bottom, unconsciously swallowing their saliva.
But Adam didn't scold them.
What could he say?
Don't be hungry?
He couldn't say anything.
Because he was hungry too—his stomach ached, his head spun—and a thought even suddenly popped into his mind: If I take off this armor and walk into that alley, would Corleone give me a meat pie?
The moment this thought appeared, Adam shook his head violently to suppress it.
He couldn't think like that.
He was the commander of the City Watch, the man personally appointed by Lord Tywin, and he bore the responsibility of maintaining order in King's Landing.
But the weight on his shoulders felt as heavy as a mountain at this moment.
Meanwhile, inside the The Hall of Order, Corleone was listening to the latest report.
The air was filled with the smell of mold, dust, and a faint scent of food; in the small kitchen deep inside, Marge was preparing hot soup for several wounded The Mafia members.
"Eleven confirmed dead," Rorge reported, his noseless face looking even more hideous in the candlelight. "Including three centurions and eight squad leaders. All according to your instructions—we only killed the middle-tier officers who betrayed us and didn't touch the ordinary soldiers."
Hearing this, Corleone nodded.
On the map of Flea Bottom spread out before him, eleven locations were now marked with red dots, each representing an assassination scene.
The red dots were evenly distributed, covering all the key nodes of the Gold Cloaks on the outskirts of Flea Bottom.
"What's the reaction?" Corleone asked.
"A complete mess." Rorge grinned. "Adam Marbrand is nearly going crazy."
"He's sent men to search internally, but they can't find a thing. Now the Gold Cloaks look at everyone as a traitor; officers don't even dare move alone—they need four people to accompany them just to go to the privy."
"And the grain?" Corleone turned to Marge.
Marge had just come out of the kitchen, her apron stained with flour: "Distributed as planned. Three hundred and twenty of the most struggling families have received bread and meat soup."
"The children all had hot soup this morning." She paused, her voice slightly choked. "An old lady cried when she got the bread; she said her grandson hadn't eaten anything decent for four or five days."
Corleone was silent for a moment, then spoke calmly, "Tell her that as long as we are here, her grandson will never go hungry again."
This was not empty talk.
Before leaving Dragonstone, Corleone had secretly procured a large amount of grain through the Lake Family and stored it in a dozen hidden locations throughout Flea Bottom.
This grain was quite enough to feed ten thousand people for a month.
"We intercepted the Gold Cloaks' supplies," Rorge added with a chuckle. "The logistics officer took the money and swapped the good grain for moldy flour and rotten meat. Now the soldiers outside are turning green with hunger, salivating at the scent of our food."
A perfect contrast.
The Gold Cloaks were gnawing on rock-hard bread while the civilians of Flea Bottom were eating steaming hot breakfasts.
This contrast in sight and smell was more powerful than any propaganda.
"It's time." Corleone stood up and walked to the wall.
Hanging there was that set of Kingsguard armor, its silver-white steel plates flashing with a cold light in the sunlight.
"You're really going in person?" Rorge asked worriedly. "It's too dangerous. The Red Keep is heavily guarded; if you're discovered...
"
"I must go," Corleone interrupted him, speaking decisively. "Tywin needs to see that I am not a rat hiding in the shadows, afraid to show my face."
"If I can walk into his castle, I can walk out of it. Only then will he seriously consider my proposal."
"And."
"The Hand of the King needs to know one thing."
"King's Landing does not belong solely to the Lannisters, and the Small Council is not Tywin Lannister's alone."
Noon, the Red Keep.
The blazing sunlight fell upon the long table; the air was stagnant, and dust motes tumbled slowly in the shafts of light, as if time itself had grown viscous in this hall.
At the head of the long table sat Lord Tywin Lannister, as steady as a mountain, with the decision-makers of the Small Council seated on either side.
Only the King was missing.
"Regarding the trial procedures for Tyrion Lannister," a steady voice broke the silence.
The speaker was Kevan Lannister, the master of laws, sitting to Tywin's right.
"Currently, we have completed preparations according to the law. The panel of judges will consist of the Hand of the King, Lord Lord Mace Tyrell, and myself."
"The High Septon has agreed to hold the trial proceedings at the Great Sept of Baelor. Regarding the organization of evidence, Her Majesty the Queen Regent insists...
"
"Evidence?"
Just then, a slightly flamboyant voice interrupted him.
It was Lord Mace Tyrell, the master of ships, who had not long arrived in King's Landing.
The Lord of Highgarden was currently wearing a silk doublet of emerald green—the symbolic color of House Tyrell—with a golden rose embroidered on the chest. He attempted to maintain the air of a Lord of Highgarden, but the irrepressible irritability in his brow and the faint dark circles under his eyes betrayed his inner state.
As soon as he arrived in King's Landing, he heard the news of the Redwyne Fleet's rebellion, making Mace feel as if a sharp sword were hanging over his head.
He struggled to straighten his back, eager to show his loyalty to the Hand: "Tyrion Lannister's crime of regicide is already beyond doubt; there's no need for a trial at all!"
"But we must uphold procedural justice," Kevan replied flatly in his capacity as master of laws. "If the trial finds him guilty, we will deal with him according to the law. House Lannister does not, and has never, shielded criminals...
"
But before Kevan Lannister could finish, a voice laced with a heavy Dornish accent arrogantly cut him off: "If the Lannisters never shielded criminals, then that fellow with hands stained with blood should have died over a decade ago!"
Everyone turned their heads in astonishment toward the door.
There stood Prince Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, a look of immense mockery on his face, the malice in his smile undisguised.
His gaze swept over everyone, and then he strode into the Small Council meeting, walking straight to the long table and dragging an unoccupied chair with one hand.
The high-backed chair was dragged roughly, its legs scraping against the smooth stone floor with a sharp, ear-piercing sound that echoed through the solemn hall, appearing exceedingly arrogant.
Finally, directly opposite Tywin, across the wide tabletop, he slammed the chair down and sat in it with a swagger.
Leaning back, he crossed his legs, even propping his boots onto the edge of the table, and tilted his chin up, staring provocatively and directly at Tywin.
"I'm not wrong, am I, Tywin Lannister?"
Seeing him being so arrogant, the Hand merely met Oberyn's gaze calmly, pausing for a moment before speaking: "Prince Prince Oberyn Martell."
"The Small Council does not seem to have invited you to attend."
"Invited?" Oberyn raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly, as if he had heard a massive joke: "I see you've truly grown old; even your mind isn't clear anymore!"
As he spoke, he looked around the room with interest, then shook his head in disappointment: "Is there not even a single young person in this damn Small Council?"
Hearing this, the several people present looked at each other.
After all, no one was young; Tywin was nearly sixty, Kevan was about the same, and that old fellow Grand Maester Pycelle was over eighty.
Varys... no one knew exactly how old that fellow was, though he didn't look particularly old.
The only one around Oberyn's age was Lord Mace Tyrell, but the Lord of Highgarden looked even a bit older than Tywin.
It could be said that Oberyn's mockery had dragged almost everyone into it.
"Watch your words, Prince."
Kevan, who placed the most importance on solemnity and justice, was the first to warn in a low voice, his hand pressing onto the edge of the table.
However, Oberyn didn't even spare him a glance, still staring at Tywin. His speech wasn't fast, but every word was marked by mockery and hatred: "It's the truth."
"If I remember correctly, I was invited by the former acting Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister, to come to King's Landing on behalf of my brother, Prince Prince Doran Martell, to sit on the Small Council as a special advisor."
"What, the war isn't even over, and the things you Lannisters personally promised no longer count? Or have you truly forgotten all about it?"
He leaned forward, elbows propped on the table, closing the distance between himself and Tywin, a "sincere" smile appearing on his face: "If you've really forgotten, I can certainly understand; after all, you're old, and it's normal for the spirit to be willing but the flesh to be weak."
"If you feel that sitting in the Hand's seat is too tiring and the burden too heavy, I would be more than happy to sit in it for a while."
"After all, in Sunspear, I often help handle my brother's administrative affairs. I guarantee I'd be much more... organized than this current mess in King's Landing!"
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