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Pat*eon : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: The Dragon Who Remembers
Game of Thrones: What Must Be Done
Duskendale sat a day's ride north of King's Landing. Inside the great hall of the keep, Lord Rafford Lake lounged in a carved wooden chair, sipping red wine from his own vineyards. The death of the king didn't seem to trouble him at all.
The door opened softly. His steward stepped in and spoke in a low voice. "My lord, your visitor has arrived."
"Send him in."
The steward bowed and left. Moments later a cloaked figure limped into the hall, hood pulled low to hide most of his face. He moved with a heavy limp, one leg clearly injured. He stopped ten paces from Lord Rafford and gave a stiff, awkward bow.
"Lord Lake," the man rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over broken glass.
Lord Rafford set his cup down and tapped the arm of his chair. "Take off the hood. In my hall no one needs to hide their face."
After a short pause the man lifted the hood.
Candlelight revealed a face that was hard to forget. No nose. One eye smaller than the other, the lid drooping unnaturally. Thick black hair covered his scarred skin. Ugly as sin.
Lord Rafford didn't flinch or look disgusted. He simply nodded. "We've met. Rorge, isn't it?"
Rorge nodded.
Lord Rafford studied him with mild amusement. "Tywin Lannister put a hundred gold dragons on your head. You walk into my keep and I could hand you over for the reward right now."
Rorge's shoulders tightened, but he stood his ground. "I know the risk, my lord."
"But I also know House Lake doesn't pick sides lightly."
"Not picking sides doesn't mean sheltering outlaws," Lord Rafford said. He rose and walked to the hearth, the firelight throwing long shadows across his face. "Especially now. The king is dead, the city is locked down, and Tywin is hunting every last member of the Black Hand."
"If I turn you in I get the gold and I earn the Hand a favor. That's a good deal."
"You could do that," Rorge said through gritted teeth, voice even rougher. "But Corleone once told me your son Herbert Lake was his friend. He said if I ever had nowhere else to go, I could come to House Lake. Not because you'd help me, but because you'd at least hear me out before deciding."
At the name "Corleone" Lord Rafford's fingers paused on his cup. He turned back to face Rorge. "Vito Corleone is dead. Or at least everyone thinks he is. The Redwyne fleet turned, Lord Paxter was killed, and Corleone shouted Tywin's name before he jumped into the sea. That news reached King's Landing three days ago. Why bring up a dead man now?"
"He's not dead!" Rorge took a step forward, voice rising. "I know it. I believe it with everything I have. I need House Lake's help to find him."
"King's Landing has gone mad. Tywin's men tore through Flea Bottom, arrested our people, and stole everything we built. Only Corleone can fix this. Only he can lead us against—"
"Against what?" Lord Rafford gave a short, cold laugh. "You're naïve, Rorge. Vito Corleone had some clever tricks, but he's up against Tywin Lannister. No one beats Tywin Lannister."
"He can!" Rorge's voice cracked with raw passion. "He destroyed the Brave Companions by himself. He came to King's Landing with nothing and built order in Flea Bottom. He beat the Mountain when everyone said it was impossible!"
His scarred face twisted with fierce loyalty. "Corleone isn't like those highborn lords. He understands people like us—street rats, whores, beggars, sailors, workers. He gave us fairness. He gave us dignity!"
Rorge took a deep breath and forced himself calmer. "I know you don't owe me anything, my lord. But if you help me find Corleone and bring him back to King's Landing, the Black Hand will pay whatever price you name."
Lord Rafford went silent. He returned to his chair, picked up his wine, and swirled it without drinking. The fire popped in the hearth.
Finally he spoke. "Proof."
Rorge blinked. "Proof of what?"
Lord Rafford clapped his hands. A servant entered carrying a wooden tray. On it lay a heavy butcher's cleaver, the kind used to hack through bone. The blade gleamed in the firelight.
The servant set the tray on the table in front of Rorge and withdrew without a word.
"If you truly believe in Corleone," Lord Rafford said, voice smooth, "if you're willing to do anything for him, then prove it. Cut off your right hand. One hand for House Lake's help. Fair trade. You might even come out ahead."
Rorge stared at the cleaver. His breathing grew ragged. He looked at the blade, then at Lord Rafford, then at his own right hand—the hand that could still hold a knife, still eat, still fight.
"You're joking," he rasped.
"I never joke." Lord Rafford leaned back, fingers steepled. "Choose. Cut, or leave."
Silence stretched. Sweat beaded on Rorge's forehead and ran down his scars. His left hand trembled. His right hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist.
At last he reached out and gripped the cleaver's handle. It felt impossibly heavy. He raised it high, eyes locked on his right wrist.
"For the Black Hand," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. He closed his eyes, jaw tight, arm muscles bunching—
"Enough."
The voice came from the shadowed side corridor. Familiar. Calm.
Rorge's eyes flew open. The cleaver froze mid-air. He turned toward the sound.
Two men stepped out of the shadows.
One was Herbert Lake, Lord Rafford's second son. Rorge recognized him.
The other—
The cleaver clattered to the floor. Rorge's mouth fell open.
Corleone stood there, travel-worn but steady, dark hair slightly mussed, eyes sharp as ever. He wore simple clothes under a dark cloak—nothing like the feared founder of the Black Hand.
"Corleone… sir?" Rorge's voice cracked.
Corleone smiled and walked into the center of the hall. "I told you Rorge was worth trusting, Lord Rafford. Your test was unnecessary."
"Tests are always necessary, Ser Corleone," Lord Rafford said mildly, pouring a second cup of wine. "Especially now."
Rorge still stared, stunned. He looked from Corleone to Herbert to Lord Rafford, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Sir…" His voice broke. "You're alive. We all thought—"
"Thought I was dead?" Corleone crossed to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The simple touch nearly undid Rorge. "Jumping into the sea isn't that hard to survive. You, though… you look like hell."
Rorge glanced down at his ragged clothes and fresh scars and managed a bitter laugh. "King's Landing changed the moment you left, sir. Everything changed."
"On the third day after you disappeared, Tywin moved in," Rorge continued. "Ser Addam Marbrand led hundreds of Gold Cloaks straight into Flea Bottom. They seized the Hall of Order, closed every gambling house, tavern, and warehouse we controlled. They called the Black Hand an illegal organization."
Corleone listened in silence, face unreadable. Lord Rafford and Herbert exchanged glances but said nothing.
"They arrested dozens of us," Rorge went on. "Old Wes, Moss… anyone who mattered either got taken or ran. Iggo tried to hold the Hall of Order by himself. You know how he is—he doesn't know fear. He cut down six Gold Cloaks before they netted him and speared his legs. Last I heard he's in the black cells under the Red Keep. Tywin hasn't killed him yet. I don't know why."
Corleone's eyes flickered, but his voice stayed even. "Keep going."
Rorge suddenly grinned, though there was no humor in it. "They took over, but those idiots don't know how to run anything. They ruined it all, sir."
"Be specific," Corleone said.
Rorge started counting on his thick fingers. "Gambling houses first. We used to clear three hundred gold dragons a month. Now? Barely a hundred. Why? The Gold Cloaks let cheaters run wild. Fights break out every night. Three deaths in the last week alone. Honest players stopped coming. Revenue dropped, so the Gold Cloaks raised the daily protection fee to five silver stags per table. Half the houses shut down. The rest are dying."
"Brothels next. Twenty houses used to bring in two hundred gold dragons a month. Now only five are left and they can't even scrape together a hundred a week. The girls got sick or ran. The Gold Cloaks added a 'body tax' on top of their cut. Real beauties fled back to the Street of Silk. What's left in Flea Bottom are the old, the sick, and the ugly. Customers don't come anymore."
Herbert Lake snorted into his wine. "Underground business rises and falls. What's so surprising?"
Rorge shot him a flat look and kept going. "Then there's the bread and grain. We had fair deals with the merchants in King's Landing—steady supply at decent prices. Four distribution points in Flea Bottom sold it cheap so people wouldn't starve. The Gold Cloaks shut them down, called it 'market interference.' Now a handful of merchants control everything. Prices tripled and stock runs out constantly."
Rorge gave a short, bitter laugh. "Here's the best part. Food got expensive, people got desperate, they started stealing and fighting. Crime went up, so the Gold Cloaks brought in more men, which meant higher taxes, which meant even higher food prices. They built themselves a perfect little circle and stepped right into it."
Lord Rafford swirled his wine, unimpressed. "Tywin never cared about running Flea Bottom's gutters. There's no real money in those wretches. And this is how the world works—some win, some lose. We've always done it this way."
Rorge stared at him for a long moment, then slowly bared his yellowed teeth. "You're right, young Lord Lake. Very normal."
"No," Corleone said quietly. He stood up.
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop. The firelight dimmed. Corleone's shadow stretched long across the floor as he stepped forward.
"Herbert," he said, voice calm but cutting. "If every farmer in Duskendale starved, who would grow your grain?"
Herbert blinked. "That's—"
"If every craftsman went bankrupt, who would make your tools, weave your cloth, build your houses?"
"If every merchant fled, who would pay your taxes? Who would keep your harbor alive?"
Corleone stopped in front of Herbert and looked down at the young noble. "This isn't rule. It's plunder. The stupidest, most shortsighted kind of plunder."
"Tywin Lannister thinks he's ruling?" Corleone's voice rose, cold and precise. "Let me tell you what real rule looks like, Herbert. Real rule isn't standing on a hill throwing stones at anyone who sticks their head up. Real rule is building roads, digging wells, keeping trade flowing, making sure even the lowest man can earn a living with dignity."
"Rule creates order, but not the kind built on fear. The kind built on hope. The kind where every person knows that if they work hard and follow the rules, they can live with honor."
Corleone turned, eyes sweeping the room like a blade. "Tywin Lannister doesn't understand any of that. He thinks ruling means control. Means taking everything worth taking. From this day forward, I'm going to make sure everyone knows the truth."
"He's nothing but a stinking miner."