Golden-brown crust wrapped around juicy filling, steam rising, grease dripping down the old man's fingers.
From Adam's vantage point through the Myrish far-eye, the old bastard stood right at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the wall, taking bite after slow, satisfied bite.
Every chew came with a look of pure contentment.
As if he knew he was being watched, the old man lifted his head, met the gaze of the Gold Cloaks in the distance—locked eyes with Adam himself—and grinned. Then he took another huge bite.
Adam's hand tightened on the far-eye until it shook. A sharp cramp twisted in his stomach.
Not disgust. Hunger.
He, Ser Adam Marbrand, Commander of the City Watch, heir to Hornvale, a knight of some reputation, was standing here with an empty gut while some flea-ridden old man in Flea Bottom ate a hot meat pie.
Right in front of him. Like a deliberate slap.
You disrespectful old fuck.
"Sir!"
A soldier's shout came from below. "Look over there!"
Adam swung the far-eye in the direction the man pointed.
On the roof of another alley, a woman stood sipping from a steaming bowl of soup, spoon moving slow and deliberate. Beside her sat half a loaf of soft white bread, pale and clean in the morning light—nothing like the gritty black bread Adam had choked down last night.
A little farther down, a few kids squatted in a doorway, each holding a roasted sausage, grease shining on their chins.
What the hell was this?
The poor in Flea Bottom were eating breakfast while the Gold Cloaks went hungry?
This was still King's Landing?
"Send men in!" Adam roared, fighting the urge to smash the far-eye against the stone. "Search every house making food. Confiscate every scrap of grain!"
The order went down, but the response was sluggish.
The soldiers didn't want to step into those narrow, twisting alleys. Last night's assassinations had taught them that death waited in the shadows. Now they were supposed to go door-to-door stealing food from civilians?
Not a chance.
"Sir," an older soldier said to the officer relaying orders, voice careful but firm. "The men are tired and starving. Going in there right now… people could get hurt."
"This is an order," the officer snapped.
"An order won't keep us from getting our throats cut," the veteran muttered. He jerked his chin toward the alley. "Look."
The officer followed his gaze.
Several men stood in the shadows deeper in, holding sharpened wooden stakes, hammers, and shovels. They stared back, silent, eyes saying everything.
Come in if you want to die.
The officer backed down. He looked up at Adam on the high ground. Adam stood there, face like carved stone.
In the end, only two small squads were forced to go in.
They moved carefully, knocking on doors.
"Open up! King's business! We're searching for contraband grain!"
An old man with white hair opened one door. The soldiers pushed inside. The house was empty. Nothing.
"Where's the food?" a soldier demanded.
"What food?" the old man asked, looking genuinely confused. "We haven't eaten in two days."
"Then what was that smell? We saw you eating meat pies and bread!"
"Oh, that was the Stefan family next door. They already finished."
The old man let out a loud, meaty belch.
The soldiers stared at each other, fighting the urge to run the lying bastard through. But after last night's killings, none of them wanted to be the first to start trouble. They stormed next door instead.
The door was locked. Through the crack they could see dirty bowls and plates on the table, but no one answered.
House after house gave the same story. Empty rooms. Full bellies. Defiant silence.
An hour later the squads came back empty-handed, angry and humiliated.
"They're playing us," one soldier muttered to his partner. "The real food's hidden in cellars or inside the Hall of Order. We'll never find it like this."
"So what? We just keep starving?"
"How the fuck should I know? You got the balls to pick a fight with the Black Hand right now?"
"I'm hungry enough to eat a horse…"
Complaints spread. The men were tired, hungry, and starting to wonder whose side they were really on.
By midday the delayed supply wagons finally rolled in. The soldiers turned toward them with the eyes of starving wolves.
"This is it?" Adam stared at the unloaded goods—moldy black flour, questionable salted meat, and bundles of horse feed. His voice was dangerously quiet.
"Sir, the quartermaster said…" The logistics officer wiped sweat from his face. "Grain's tight right now. Red Keep and the noble districts get priority. This is everything they could spare."
"Bullshit."
Adam stepped closer, hand resting on his sword hilt. "How much did Corleone pay you to swap our real supplies for this garbage?"
The officer went pale. "Sir, I—I didn't—"
"How much?" Adam's voice rose. "Tell me the truth or I'll have you executed for treason right here."
The man collapsed to his knees, sobbing. "One hundred gold dragons. He said there'd be another hundred after. My daughter's sick, sir. She needs a maester. I—I had no choice—"
Adam closed his eyes.
The feeling of helplessness was total. Corleone's web reached everywhere—rank-and-file soldiers, mid-level officers, even the supply chain.
The man never fought head-on. He just pushed at every weak joint until the whole machine started breaking down on its own.
"Lock him up," Adam said, sheathing his sword. His voice sounded exhausted. "We'll deal with him after this is over."
The officer was dragged away, but the damage was done.
The men were still hungry. Flea Bottom's cooking fires still sent up smoke. The smell of food still drifted on the wind.
Adam stood at the edge of the command post, looking out at his soldiers—sitting or lying on the ground, faces tired, eyes hollow. Some of them kept glancing toward Flea Bottom and swallowing without realizing it.
He didn't yell at them.
What could he say?
Don't be hungry?
He had nothing.
Because he was hungry too. Stomach cramping, head light. For one insane second he caught himself wondering: If I took off this armor and walked into that alley, would Corleone hand me a meat pie?
He shook the thought away hard.
He was Commander of the City Watch. Tywin Lannister's man. He had a duty.
But the weight on his shoulders felt heavier than ever.
Inside the Hall of Order, Corleone listened to the latest report.
The air smelled of dust, old stone, and the faint scent of cooking from the small kitchen where Marg was making soup for wounded Black Hand men.
"Eleven confirmed dead," Rorge reported, his noseless face looking pleased in the candlelight. "Three centurions, eight squad captains. All mid-level officers who betrayed us. We left the regular soldiers alone, just like you said."
Corleone nodded.
On the map of Flea Bottom spread across the table, eleven red marks now dotted the key points around the Gold Cloak perimeter.
"Reaction?" he asked.
"Total chaos," Rorge said with a grin. "Adam Marbrand's losing his mind."
"He tried searching his own ranks but found nothing. Now the Gold Cloaks are looking at each other like everyone's a traitor. Officers won't even take a piss without four men watching their backs."
"And the food?" Corleone turned to Marg.
She had just come from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour. "Distributed exactly as planned. Three hundred and twenty of the worst-off families got bread and meat soup this morning."
"The kids had hot soup today," she added, voice catching for a second. "One old woman cried when she got her share. Said her grandson hadn't eaten real food in four or five days."
Corleone was quiet for a moment. Then he said, calm and certain, "Tell her that as long as we're here, her grandson won't go hungry again."
It wasn't empty words.
Before leaving Dragonstone, Corleone had used House Lake's connections to quietly buy and store enough grain in hidden spots across Flea Bottom to feed thousands for a month.
"The Gold Cloaks' supplies got hit too," Rorge added. "That logistics officer took the bribe and swapped the good grain for moldy flour and bad meat. Their men are out there starving while they smell our cooking."
Perfect contrast.
Gold Cloaks chewing on rock-hard bread while Flea Bottom ate hot breakfast.
The message was louder than any riot.
"It's time," Corleone said, standing up and walking to the wall.
Hanging there was the set of white Kingsguard armor, polished until the steel shone cold and bright.
"You're really going yourself?" Rorge asked, worry clear in his voice. "It's too dangerous. The Red Keep's crawling with guards. If they catch you—"
"I have to go," Corleone cut him off. "Tywin needs to see I'm not some rat hiding in the shadows."
"I can walk into his castle. I can walk out. Once he understands that, he'll actually listen to what I have to say."
He paused, eyes on the armor.
"And the Hand needs to remember something."
"King's Landing isn't just Lannister territory. And the Small Council isn't just Tywin Lannister's private table."
Noon. The Red Keep.
Harsh sunlight cut across the long table. Dust hung in the beams of light like the air itself had thickened.
At the head sat Tywin Lannister, still as stone. The rest of the Small Council filled the other seats.
The king was absent.
"Regarding the trial procedures for Tyrion Lannister," Kevan Lannister began, steady and formal from his place at Tywin's right. "We've prepared everything according to law. The judges will be the Hand, Lord Mace Tyrell, and myself."
"The High Septon has agreed to hold the proceedings at the Great Sept of Baelor. As for evidence, the Queen Regent insists—"
"Evidence?"
Mace Tyrell's voice cut in, loud and impatient.
The Lord of Highgarden sat in his green-and-gold finery, trying to look every inch the great lord, but the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders gave him away. News of the Redwyne fleet's betrayal had hit him hard the moment he arrived in King's Landing.
He straightened in his chair and leaned forward. "Tyrion Lannister's guilt is obvious. There's no need for a trial at all!"
"We still need to follow proper procedure," Kevan replied evenly. "If he's found guilty, he will be punished according to the law. House Lannister has never shielded criminals—"
But before Kevan could finish, a thick Dornish accent cut through the chamber like a blade.
"If House Lannister never shielded criminals, that blood-soaked bastard should have died years ago!"
Every head turned toward the doors.
Oberyn Martell stood there, grinning with open contempt. He didn't wait for an invitation. He strode into the room, grabbed an empty chair, and dragged it across the stone floor with a long, deliberate screech.
The sound echoed off the walls.
He dropped into the seat directly across from Tywin, leaned back, and casually propped one boot on the edge of the table. Then he looked straight at the Hand and smiled like they were old friends.
"I'm not wrong, am I, Tywin Lannister?"
Tywin met his gaze without blinking. After a short silence he said, "Prince Oberyn Martell."
"The Small Council did not invite you to attend."
"Invite?" Oberyn raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "You must be getting senile in your old age. I was invited by the previous acting Hand, Tyrion Lannister, to sit in for my brother Prince Doran as a special advisor."
He glanced around the table, then shook his head in disappointment. "Is there not a single young person at this entire fucking council?"
The others exchanged looks. Tywin was nearly sixty. Kevan wasn't much younger. Pycelle was ancient. Varys's age was anyone's guess. Mace Tyrell looked older than all of them combined.
Oberyn's comment landed on everyone.
"Mind your tongue, Prince," Kevan said sharply, hand on the table.
Oberyn didn't even glance at him. He kept his eyes on Tywin. "It's the truth."
"If I remember correctly, I was invited here by Acting Hand Tyrion Lannister to represent my brother. So tell me, Hand—has the war ended already? Or does House Lannister just break its word the second it's inconvenient?"
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance. His smile turned sharp. "If sitting in that chair is too heavy for you these days, I'd be happy to take it off your hands for a while."
"After all, I help my brother run Dorne's affairs regularly. I'm sure I could manage this mess better than what I'm seeing right now."