The man lowered his voice, leaning closer across the vendor's small table as if the very air around them might be listening.
"As far as I know, Prince Baelon had a dragon dream last night. The beginning of it matched what you said earlier. Yet there was a great portion of the dream you never heard about."
The vendor blinked in surprise. A dragon dream. Those were not matters common folk heard spoken of so openly.
"Darkness truly rose from the southwest," the man continued. "But the darkness that once shrouded King's Landing has already weakened. Much of it has faded. That is precisely why Prince Baelon came to the city. He wished to see the truth with his own eyes."
This was not the tale the vendor had expected. His curiosity stirred, though he did not dare interrupt. Instead he folded his flour-stained hands together and listened closely.
The man spoke with growing confidence.
"Yet after Prince Baelon arrived, he found nothing. No trace of where this so-called darkness came from, nor what it truly was. So this morning he went to the Faith of the Seven to seek their aid."
The vendor shifted his weight slightly, the wooden stool creaking beneath him.
"The septons gathered before the statues of the Seven and knelt in prayer," the man said. "They hoped the gods might reveal the source of the darkness to the prince. Even the Septon Mattheus, nearly eighty years of age, joined the ceremony."
The man paused for effect, studying the vendor's face.
"With the Seven watching over them, they discovered a clue."
His tone sharpened.
"Do you know who this 'darkness' is?"
The question struck so suddenly that the vendor nearly choked on his own breath. He rubbed his hands nervously against his apron before answering.
"I do not know," he admitted. "But it cannot be anything good."
He spoke honestly.
For smallfolk like him, the realm was peaceful enough. Wars were fought far from the city walls, somewhere beyond the borders of the kingdom. Victories always seemed to follow, and life in King's Landing continued much the same.
The word darkness meant only one thing to people like him.
Chaos.
And chaos was never kind to the poor.
The man slapped the table lightly, his voice rising with emotion.
"You are right. He is no good man at all."
He leaned forward, eyes burning with resentment.
"Do you remember that noble lord who oversaw the cleaning of the streets some time ago? The one who rode through the city surrounded by soldiers and never spared a glance for people like us."
The vendor frowned, thinking.
"The Hand of the King," the man added.
Recognition flashed across the vendor's face at once.
"I remember," he said quickly, straightening in his seat. "Of course I remember."
His voice carried the same bitterness now.
"My bakery was doing well enough then. The oven stayed inside the shop, and I set only a small table outside to sell bread. It did not block the road in the slightest."
His jaw tightened as the memory returned.
"But he never even explained himself. He simply gave an order. His soldiers marched over and overturned my stall."
The vendor clenched his fists unconsciously.
"All the fresh bread I had just baked fell straight onto the street."
A flicker of pain crossed his face.
The streets of King's Landing were no clean stone roads. Filth coated them. Human waste, foul water, and the rotting carcasses of dead rats were common sights.
When the bread struck the ground, it was ruined.
Even after washing it, he had no choice but to sell it for half the usual price. No one would pay full coin for bread that had touched those streets.
For a small vendor, the loss had been devastating.
The man across from him released a bitter sigh.
"You were fortunate," he said quietly. "At least you still had a roof over your head."
He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression heavy with regret.
"I worked ten years. Ten long years saving coin to buy a small house in the dock district. And he tore it down in a single day because it 'blocked the street.'"
His voice softened.
"My home became rubble."
He spread his hands helplessly. Without a home, he had drifted from place to place, living worse than a stray dog.
The vendor sighed in sympathy. Ever since that lord began his patrols through King's Landing, the number of beggars sleeping in the streets had multiplied.
Even Flea Bottom, once slowly emptying, had grown crowded again.
"But why bring him up now?" the vendor asked slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Could it be that he is…"
Before he could finish, the man nodded eagerly.
"That is right. Exactly."
The vendor blinked once, then a faint smile crept across his face as realization dawned.
In the vendor's mind, the matter seemed simple.
Prince Baelon had arrived.
To many in King's Landing, Baelon represented strength itself. Hope. If a darkness truly threatened the realm, then surely it would be crushed beneath his hand.
The vendor was far from alone in that belief.
From the taming of the White Hart, to the plundering of Tyrosh, and later the founding of the Dawn Watchers that guarded the northern frontier of the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Baelon's renown had only grown.
And the people of King's Landing had reason to feel proud.
After all, they had been among the first to support him. It was the smallfolk of the city who had first shouted his title in the streets.
Was that not something worth boasting about?
The vendor's expression brightened at the thought.
Yet the guest shook his head slowly, his brow creasing.
"Things are not as simple as you think," he said. "Do not forget. The darkness came from the southwest. It only spread as far as King's Landing."
The vendor frowned.
The guest leaned closer.
"Do you know the name of that lord?"
"Otto," he said quietly. "Otto Hightower."
The name carried weight.
"According to a relative of mine serving with the City Watch," the man continued, lowering his voice further, "that lord's family lands lie southeast of King's Landing."
For common folk who might spend their entire lives within the city walls, the geography of noble houses meant little. Most could scarcely point to Oldtown on a map.
The vendor scratched the back of his head uncertainly.
"So you mean… Prince Baelon intends to move against that… that Hightower family?"
The words came out awkwardly.
To a man like him, even the sight of a knight demanded an immediate bow. Speaking so casually of great lords, or of the family of the Hand of the King, made his tongue feel heavy.
The guest reacted at once.
"Ssh!"
He lunged forward and seized the vendor's arm, eyes darting nervously along the street.
"Are you mad?" he hissed. "How dare you speak such things aloud?"
He released the vendor slowly, lowering his voice.
"Matters like that are for great men like Prince Baelon to worry about. People like us should mind our own lives."
The vendor swallowed.
The sudden warning drained his enthusiasm for the conversation. He took the bread the man had bought, wrapped it quickly, and slipped it into the man's hands.
The customer left soon after.
For a long time, the vendor stood staring at the open doorway of the bakery, lost in thought.
At last he moved.
Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled the wooden door shut. The latch clicked softly into place.
Then he turned and began walking toward the barracks of the City Watch.
The guest had spoken the truth.
He was nobody.
But even a nobody possessed a sense of right and wrong.
He knew which men deserved help, and which ones truly cared for people like him, the smallfolk who spent their lives in the mud and stink of the city streets.
He remembered the words his mother had once told him when he was still a boy.
Do what you believe is right.
As a young man with fire still in his heart, he chose to follow that teaching.
Not far from the bakery, a narrow alley lay hidden between two crooked buildings.
Within its shadows stood a plainly dressed man.
Beside him was the same customer who had entered the bakery earlier to buy bread.
"Excellent," the man in the shadows said, tossing a small pouch of coins into the other's hands. "You did very well today. This is a reward from Prince Baelon."
The customer caught the pouch, surprise flashing briefly across his face.
"Next," the man continued, "have Kress go to the tavern in the eastern district. Spread the same story there."
The customer nodded eagerly.
"The captain's plan is truly brilliant," he said with admiration. "That bakery was the final checkpoint on this street. Shall we move on to the next?"
The man in the shadows shook his head.
"No need."
His tone turned cold.
"Do not ask questions you should not ask."
He turned toward the mouth of the alley.
"We return to base camp. Time to rest."
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
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