The office on the third floor of the Hall of Order was quiet except for the soft creak of Balman Byrch's chair as his head nodded forward. He wore a fresh deep-blue velvet coat with silver embroidery at the collar and a new silver-buckled belt that had cost him fifteen gold dragons. More than enough to feed a common family in King's Landing for a couple of years. But Balman didn't care. As captain of the Gold Cloaks in Flea Bottom, the graft was good and getting better every week. Merchants lined up to buy his favor. Even his wife Falyse had started looking at him differently lately—warmer, almost eager. For a man pushing middle age with a spreading waist, it felt like old days again.
He smiled into his cup, already half-drunk on Arbor gold from the feast on Pickled Meat Street. Some rich merchant had wanted to meet "a friend of the Black Hand." Balman had gone, eaten the man's food, taken the man's gold, and left without promising anything real. That was the trick—know where the line was and never cross it. Corleone's line.
A low snore escaped him. His head dropped again, chin slick with drool that stained the expensive velvet.
Outside, the moon slid lower. Time passed.
A short, muffled scream cut through the night from somewhere below—sharp, then gone, like someone had clapped a hand over the source.
Balman jerked awake. The office was dark. Only a thin bar of moonlight cut across the floor from the window. The hearth was cold. No candles burned. He rubbed his eyes and stood, joints stiff. "Lord Corleone?" His voice came out hoarse.
No answer.
He turned toward the door just as it opened.
A tall shape filled the frame, backlit by the dim corridor light. The man stepped inside without hurry. Moonlight caught half his face—sharp cheekbones, black eyes that gave nothing away. Vito Corleone. The blood on his leather coat had dried to a dark crust. He smelled faintly of disinfectant and iron.
Balman forced a smile and stepped forward. "My lord. Rolje said you wanted to see me."
Corleone walked past him to the desk, sat, and leaned back until most of his face sank into shadow. Only those black eyes stayed visible. "Sit."
Balman dropped into the chair across from him. The wine fog was clearing fast now, replaced by something colder.
"Tea," Corleone said to the darkness near the door.
A low voice answered from the hall. "Yes, my lord."
Footsteps faded, then returned. Rolje set a steaming clay cup in front of Balman and left without a word. The scent of strong black tea filled the space between them.
"Drink it," Corleone said.
Balman lifted the cup. The tea was scalding. He took a careful sip and nearly burned his tongue. "My lord, I—"
"Drink it all."
Balman swallowed the rest in three painful gulps. His throat felt raw. "Good tea," he managed, voice raspy. "Very… strong."
Corleone watched him for a long moment. "You've been busy."
Balman nodded too quickly. "Just keeping the peace, my lord. The merchants are happy. The men are happy. Everyone's making money."
"Everyone except the people who actually need order," Corleone said. His tone stayed even, almost gentle. "Tell me, Captain Byrch. Do you remember what night it is?"
Balman blinked. "The… seventeenth?"
"Deep autumn. The seventeenth." Corleone leaned forward slightly. The moonlight caught the edge of his jaw. "Your watch night. The one night you swore you would stay sober. The night you swore you would be here, eyes open, because I asked it of you."
Balman's stomach dropped. He had forgotten. Or rather, he had remembered until the merchant's gold and the free wine made it easy to forget.
"My lord, I can explain—"
Corleone raised one hand. "Three hours ago, Tyrion Lannister was taken from an alley in Flea Bottom. Right under your watch."
The words hit like a slap. Balman opened his mouth, closed it again. Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. Hand of the King's own son.
Before he could speak, heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. Rolje entered, dragging something that left a wet red smear across the stone floor. He let go. A man hit the ground with a wet thud and groaned.
Balman's blood went cold. It was Willis, his own second-in-command. The man's face was swollen to a purple mask. His shirt hung in rags. Fresh cuts crossed his chest.
"Willis?" Balman whispered.
The man on the floor lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut. "Captain… please…"
Corleone's voice came from the shadows. "He was very loyal to you at first. Didn't want to talk. So I let him watch while I opened up one of his friends. That changed his mind."
Rolje stepped forward and planted a boot on Willis's broken ribs. The man screamed.
"Who told you to clear the streets?" Rolje asked, voice flat.
Willis sobbed. "Lady… Lady Falyse. She paid us. Said to look the other way when her men moved through. Said no one would ask questions if we kept the Gold Cloaks busy elsewhere."
Balman felt the floor tilt under him. Falyse. His own wife. The woman who had suddenly started warming to him again.
"You let them take children," Corleone said quietly. "You let them take Tyrion Lannister. All because your wife wanted pocket money and you wanted to pretend you were important."
Balman tried to stand. His legs wouldn't hold him. He dropped to his knees instead. "My lord, I didn't know—I swear on the Seven—"
Corleone rose and crossed the room. He stopped in front of Balman and looked down at him the way a man looks at a dog that has fouled the carpet.
"No one refuses my kindness, Captain Byrch. I gave you power. I gave you gold. I gave you respect. And you pissed it all away for a whore's smile and a few extra coins."
He crouched so their faces were level. His voice dropped to something almost kind.
"You have one night to make this right. Find Tyrion Lannister. Bring him back breathing. Or I will teach every man in Flea Bottom what happens when someone breaks the only rule that matters."
Balman stared into those black eyes and understood, finally, that the man in front of him was not offering mercy. He was offering a last chance to choose how he died.
Corleone stood. "Get up. You have work to do."
Outside, the first gray light of dawn touched the rooftops of Flea Bottom. Inside the Hall of Order, Balman Byrch wiped blood from his hands and tried not to think about how much of it might soon be his own.