When Ser Adam Marbrand rode up to the edge of Flea Bottom late at night, the slum was pitch black and dead silent. It felt ridiculous.
Where were the people?
The torches?
He'd brought two thousand Gold Cloaks and two hundred Lannister men to surround the place—enough steel to start a real war. He was ready to crush the rebellion on the Hand's orders.
But where was the rebellion?
Flea Bottom sat there quiet as a corpse that had just stopped breathing. Only the wind moaned through the narrow alleys, like it was mourning someone.
"Sir, something's wrong," his adjutant Ser Osfrey said, voice low, hand resting on his sword hilt. "Too quiet."
No shit.
Adam shot him a look. Of course he knew something was off. He'd fought for over a decade—hunted bandits in the Westerlands, traded blows with Ironborn, even killed a dozen men himself at the Blackwater.
But he'd never seen anything like this.
He was geared up for a fight.
But… where were the enemies?
He had to ask the sealing force commander who'd arrived first: "How's the blockade? Anyone trying to break out?"
"No, sir," said a centurion named Harry. "Two hours ago they were still out with torches in the streets. Then, for some reason, they started pulling back. Very organized. In less than half an hour, the streets were empty."
"Organized withdrawal," Adam muttered, frowning.
Mobs didn't retreat in formation. Once they broke, they stampeded and trampled each other.
This meant there was a command structure inside Flea Bottom. Maybe even…
There were eyes from the other side inside his own ranks.
Maybe the Hand was right. Vito Corleone wasn't dead. He was still running the show.
"Strengthen the blockade," Adam ordered. His voice carried in the silence. "Double the sentries at every exit. Use sandbags and wooden barricades. Put archers on the rooftops. I want every high point covered. I don't want a single rat getting out of Flea Bottom!"
"Yes, sir!"
Orders spread fast. Soldiers hauled sandbags and set up barricades. Crossbowmen climbed onto shaky roofs with their heavy gear. Every weapon pointed at Flea Bottom.
But inside, there wasn't a sound.
Like punching cotton. Frustrating as hell.
Adam remembered what Tywin had told him before he left the Red Keep: "Rebellion is a disease. You cut it out at the first sign."
But now the symptoms had just… disappeared.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
Meanwhile, inside the Hall of Order, Corleone had just finished listening to Rorge's report.
"The Gold Cloaks got their reinforcements."
"Exactly like our intel said. About two thousand men, plus two hundred Lannister soldiers. Led by Adam Marbrand himself."
Corleone nodded.
A hand-drawn map of Flea Bottom lay on the table in front of him, marked with charcoal for alleys, wells, underground passages, and possible defensive points. [Insight Lv3] let him see details most people would miss.
"How are our 'friends' reacting?"
Rorge grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth, eyes bright with excitement. "They all got the 'Black Hand extends' signal. According to your list and orders… nobody on it is getting away."
"Turns out you had this all set up before you left, sir. Now everyone knows the Black Hand is back."
Corleone smiled at that. A small, real smile.
In the months he'd been Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs, he'd done a lot more than just clean up Flea Bottom and build order.
Using the power Tywin gave him, Corleone had systematically infiltrated the City Watch with the Black Hand's methods. He hadn't tried to buy off high-ranking officers—those guys were too visible and wanted too much gold. Instead, he targeted the real power at the middle and lower levels: squad captains who controlled patrol areas, logistics clerks, gate guard commanders.
Guys on low pay with no promotion prospects, but who could make or break things on the ground.
For the gamblers, he had old Moss "accidentally" meet them at the tables and offer "interest-free loans."
For guys with sick family, he sent doctors for free treatment.
For the ones just short on cash, the Black Hand gave them "legitimate dividends."
For the ones who felt screwed over by their bosses, Corleone even helped smooth things over.
Most importantly, he never asked them to betray anyone right away. He just built friendships. Made them owe him favors.
Until now.
Even though the Black Hand looked scattered on the surface, before he left King's Landing, Corleone had told all his core people to lay low and "disappear" when needed.
But after he left, some on the list had cracked under pressure or greed. They'd betrayed him.
Some helped the Gold Cloaks crack down on Flea Bottom and hunt Black Hand remnants.
Some sold out people the Black Hand had protected.
Some, when they got the "Black Hand extends" recall or test signal, stayed silent or ratted people out.
Those people weren't "friends" anymore.
If he'd actually died at sea, maybe the Black Hand would've really fallen apart. The favors and leverage would've been worthless.
But now… everyone knew Vito Corleone was back.
Alive.
He tapped the table. The sky was getting light. Corleone turned to Rorge.
"Send the word. Execute the plan."
"Adam Marbrand needs to understand whose ground he's standing on."
"Got it."
Rorge grinned and disappeared.
After he left, Corleone went down to a hidden cellar alone. On the wall hung a set of shining white armor. It was polished bright, gleaming in the candlelight.
It had once belonged to Ser Meryn Trant.
He reached out, fingers brushing the cold metal.
"Soon."
Time passed to midnight.
Squad captain "Gaptooth" Hack was a veteran. Two months ago, his son had a bad lung infection. Corleone had personally saved him with expensive medicine.
Hack had knelt and sworn he'd "answer the call anytime."
But when word came that Corleone was dead and the Gold Cloaks took over Flea Bottom, Hack was one of the first to jump on the loyalty train.
He'd cracked down hard on anyone who missed the "old order." He'd even reported three suspected Black Hand meeting spots.
Hack was in a good mood.
Blockading Flea Bottom was rough work, but there was money in it. In the last few days he'd collected over twenty silver stags in "protection fees" from shops.
He was already planning to hit the Street of Silk and that redhead once this job was done.
"Stay sharp!" Hack shouted at the six soldiers on the checkpoint. "Eyes open! Not even a fly gets through!"
"Yes, Captain!" they answered in unison. Their voices echoed in the quiet street.
Hack nodded, satisfied, and walked over to the wall by the checkpoint to take a piss.
He'd barely started when he felt something cold on his neck. Like a bee sting.
Hack tried to shout, but nothing came out.
Warm liquid poured down his neck into his collar. His vision blurred. He heard a very familiar voice right by his ear.
"Debt's paid, Hack."
Through the haze, Hack thought he saw his shadow on the wall. A man stood behind him, arm around his neck like they were hugging.
Then darkness took him.
Five minutes later, the soldiers at the checkpoint finally came down to check.
They found their captain sitting against the wall, head tilted, eyes open but empty.
On the wall beside him, written in blood: "The Black Hand says hello."
The handwriting was neat. Almost elegant.
The soldiers didn't look surprised. One of them just chuckled, pulled a cold black hand badge from his pocket, and tossed it onto Hack's bloody chest.
Then he started screaming at the top of his lungs…
Not long after, Adam Marbrand got the report and rode to the scene.
He jumped off his horse, pushed through the soldiers, and crouched to check the already cold body. His face was like stone.
"Who found him?" he asked, standing up, eyes sweeping the soldiers.
"It… it was me, sir."
"Did you see the killer?"
"No. When I got here, the captain was already like this."
"Hear anything?"
The soldier shook his head. "Nothing, sir. It was quiet. Too quiet."
Adam looked at the others. "What about you? Six of you here, your captain gets killed twenty paces away, and none of you saw or heard a thing?"
Silence.
Then they all shook their heads in perfect unison.
"No, sir."
"Really didn't hear anything."
"I swear on the gods, sir."
The synchronized answers made Adam stare hard at their faces, looking for cracks.
But he saw nothing. They just looked like scared regular soldiers.
This didn't make sense.
Hack wasn't some green recruit. He'd fought in battles. Even if he got jumped, he wouldn't go down without a sound.
Unless the killer was someone he knew. Someone he had no reason to suspect.
Or… the killer was one of these six.
Adam pushed that thought down hard.
He couldn't start thinking like that.
As a good commander, he knew that once you started doubting your own men, the battle was already lost before it began.
"Double the guard," he ordered, voice tight. "Double the men at every checkpoint. No one goes alone. If you see anything suspicious, kill it."
"Yes, sir!"
But less than ten minutes later, Adam got a second assassination report.
This one at a temporary command post.
It used to be the back courtyard of a cheap tavern. Now it was a rest area for thirty soldiers.
The centurion in charge was called Eric, nicknamed "Anvil." Square-built, tough, known for being careful and disciplined.
But almost no one knew Eric had a secret vice—gambling.
A few weeks back, debt collectors had nearly skinned him alive in public. One of Corleone's men had "happened" to walk by and settled it.
But it had become Eric's guilty secret. He was terrified he'd end up as a Black Hand stooge.
When word came that Corleone was dead and the Gold Cloaks took over Flea Bottom, Eric hadn't just been relieved—he'd gone hard on the crackdown. He was especially ruthless in Flea Bottom, trying to prove his loyalty and wash away any stain.
He thought that would make him clean.
At midnight, Eric was in the middle of the yard calling roll.
Right as he was speaking, one of the soldiers checking gear behind him seemed to trip on something and stumbled into Eric's back.
Eric felt something hard jab into the back of his chest. It didn't even hurt much.
He was about to turn and yell when his whole body locked up. Numbness spread everywhere. He tried to shout, but his throat only made a gurgling sound.
Every soldier was watching him.
Watching their centurion pitch forward and hit the ground.
"Captain?!"
The nearest soldiers rushed over and rolled him onto his back.
Eric's neck had no obvious wound, but his face was purple. He was already dead.
His right hand was clenched tight. It took effort to pry it open.
In his palm… was a black hand badge.
When Adam arrived at the scene again, his face was even darker than before.
"Talk," he said, standing over Eric's body, voice like ice. "Thirty men in one yard. Your captain gets killed right in the middle. How?"
Silence.
A long, suffocating silence.
"Sir," a young officer finally said, voice shaking. "We… we really didn't see anything."
"He was talking, then he just fell."
"Just fell?"
Adam pointed at the body. "None of you saw anyone get close to him?"
"No, sir."
"Really didn't."
"I swear, sir."
Again, perfectly synchronized answers. Adam looked each of them in the face, but none showed an obvious tell.
Or maybe… they were all tells.
This was impossible.
Unless the killer was one of these thirty, and everyone chose to stay silent.
The "didn't see anything" was really "saw it but won't say."
The thought sent a chill up Adam's spine.
He remembered something Corleone had said to him once, half-joking: "Adam, you know how many people in King's Landing owe me favors?"
At the time, Adam had thought it was just bragging.
Now he wasn't so sure.
"Search them," he ordered through gritted teeth. "Every single one. I want them searched."
The search took half an hour.
Nothing.
Of course there was nothing.
If the killer was among them, they'd already cleaned up.
When Adam left the yard, his steps were unsteady.
Because he was starting to realize how completely fucked this was.
How many people had Corleone bought in King's Landing?
A third?
Half?
More?
"Sir?" His adjutant asked carefully when he saw Adam's face. "Should we search our own ranks? Find out who's had contact with the Black Hand?"
Adam stared at him.
This adjutant had been assigned to him by the Queen Regent herself. Supposedly one of her most trusted.
But now, looking into the man's eyes, Adam felt his skin crawl.
Could this guy be one of them too?
Could he drive a knife into Adam's throat tonight?
Fucking hell.
"No," Adam forced himself to stay calm. "Don't create more suspicion. This isn't the time to purge our own ranks. We need to tighten the outer defenses."
As Adam walked away, Ser Osfrey's mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.
He touched the black hand badge in his pocket.
The seed of doubt had been planted.
It would take root in the dark. Grow in the silence.
The assassinations went on all night.
By dawn, eleven officers at squad captain level or higher were confirmed dead. Three more wounded or missing.
Not a single killing had been witnessed. Not one killer caught.
At first light, Adam Marbrand stood at the front of the command post, staring at the still-silent Flea Bottom.
From shock and suspicion at the start, to numbness and refusing to sleep… he hadn't closed his eyes all night.
His eyes were bloodshot. His temples throbbed. His mouth was dry and bitter.
Worse, he was hungry.
Last night's dinner had been a rock-hard piece of black bread and a thin bowl of bean soup.
The bread had visible bran and grit in it. Adam had chipped a back tooth on it, and it still ached.
The bean soup was lukewarm. The beans weren't cooked through. It sat heavy in his stomach like a bag of stones.
"Why the hell aren't the men getting breakfast?!"
When his adjutant came back from the rear looking grim, even Adam's usual restraint was wearing thin.
"Sir, logistics says… there's a problem."
"What problem?"
"The grain wagons from Rosby ran into bandits on the Kingsroad. Delayed. They won't be here until after sunrise at the earliest."
"Bandits?" Adam's voice rose. "Rosby's what, a few dozen leagues from King's Landing? What kind of bandits hit a supply convoy this close to the capital?!"
But the adjutant just lowered his head. "The logistics officer swears it was bandits. Says the drivers and guards all confirmed it."
Adam wanted to keep yelling, but he was too tired. Too tired to even get angry.
Or maybe… he was afraid that if he pushed too hard, the man in front of him might…
This was completely fucked.
He dropped into a chair, defeated. "Tell the men to ration what they've got. Cut morning rations in half. We'll make it up when the supplies arrive."
"Yes, sir."
After the adjutant left, Adam looked back at Flea Bottom. Still dead quiet. Like the riot was over.
But then the wind shifted.
The morning breeze came from the direction of Flea Bottom, slipping past the Gold Cloak lines, carrying… a smell?
How the hell was there a smell coming out of Flea Bottom?
Adam shook his head. He must be imagining things. But his nose twitched on its own, and his eyes went wide.
No. It was real.
Bread.
How was that possible? Weren't they supposed to be out of food in there?
Heart pounding, Adam climbed to a higher vantage point and pulled out his Myrish far-eye.
What he saw made him stare.
Deep inside Flea Bottom, smoke was rising from dozens—hundreds—of places.
Not one or two houses. Dozens. Hundreds.
After being silent all night—while even the besieging army was going hungry—Flea Bottom was cooking breakfast.
It was more insulting than any riot.
"Where the hell did they get food?" Adam muttered to himself. "We sealed every exit…"
His voice trailed off as he saw something even worse.
Less than a hundred yards from the Hall of Order, at the mouth of an alley, an old man walked out slow and easy, holding… a meat pie?