For old Hobb the Stammerer, whose life boiled down to scavenging rags and bones in the alleys, fear had always had a face. It was the sneering face of a Gold Cloak demanding a bribe, the bloated face of a merchant kicking him away, or the scarred face of a Black Dog stealing the meager haul of his day. It was a loud fear, predictable, an integral part of Flea Bottom's ecosystem, like the stench of the Blackwater or the rats in the walls.
But the fear that had reigned for two weeks was different. It was a silent fear.
The change had been subtle at first. Hobb had noticed that the nights were quieter. The drunken brawls that usually erupted at the doors of the clandestine taverns had grown rare. The shouts and threats from the Black Dogs' patrols, who loved to assert their dominance by terrorizing passersby, had been replaced by a tense silence. Groleau's men now moved in tighter groups, their eyes nervously scanning the rooftops and the shadows of the dead ends. Their arrogance had evaporated, replaced by the nervousness of a hunted pack.
Then the bodies had started appearing. Not in great numbers, not in spectacular massacres. Just one or two, nearly every night. They were found at dawn, in some isolated alley or floating near the docks, face against the brackish water. There were no signs of struggle. Just small, discreet holes in the chest or throat, like deadly insect stings. The victims were always the same: known members of the Black Dogs. Tax collectors, small-time thugs, gambling den guards. Specific targets.
A cold, invisible terror had descended on Flea Bottom. Hobb, crouched in the shadow of a stall, watched a Black Dog named Othell—a colossus he'd always feared—jerk violently when a cat knocked over a crate behind him. The man, who usually strutted around bare-chested, was now bundled in a thick leather gambeson, as if that could protect him from the inevitable.
And the rumor had swelled, carried in frightened whispers from one dive to the next. It wasn't a gang war. It was something else. Some spoke of vengeful ghosts. Others, of a new disease that only struck criminals. But the most persistent rumor, the one that seemed the most logical in its madness, was the one Tony himself had put into circulation through the youngest Gnats. They said the new king, Robert Baratheon, tired of the scum infesting his capital, had called in assassins from beyond the Narrow Sea. Faceless men, silent killers, hired to cleanse the city of its worst elements, starting at the bottom.
For Hobb, this idea was both terrifying and strangely comforting. The notion that the gods—or at least the King—had finally turned their gaze to the slums was a novelty. Justice, it seemed, had finally arrived in Flea Bottom. It just had an invisible face and hands of chilling efficiency.
-------------------------------
Inside the Rusty Crab tavern, the Black Dogs' headquarters, the atmosphere wasn't festive—it was pure paranoia. The great hall, once filled with coarse laughter and the clink of tankards, was now silent, smoky, reeking of fear and stale beer.
Koss sat alone at a table, staring into his empty mug. His arm, where Lira had slashed him weeks ago, still ached sometimes. But the real wound was in his mind. He didn't go out at night anymore. He barely went out during the day. Every shadow in an alley was a threat, every draft on his neck the breath of an assassin. He saw them everywhere, those faceless ghosts. He'd seen Bael and Roric, dead, their eyes staring open at a sky they no longer saw. He'd seen the bodies of three more of his men, fished from the harbor, riddled with the same deadly punctures. Twenty. In two weeks. Twenty men, gone without a sound.
"We should burn the whole district!" he burst out suddenly, his voice trembling. "Flush 'em out! Force them to show themselves!"
Another member, older, shook his head. "And how do you find a ghost, Koss? They strike and vanish. They're not men."
"Bullshit!" Koss spat. "They're men. And they're out there, watching us. I can feel them."
His paranoia had become a contagious disease. No one wanted to take the night patrols anymore. Racket revenues had collapsed because the collectors were too scared to make their rounds alone. Groleau's well-oiled machine was grinding to a halt, eaten away from within by fear.
Groleau, for his part, wasn't afraid. He was enraged. His power rested on a simple equation: the fear he inspired had to outweigh the fear of his enemies. But that equation had flipped. His own men feared the shadows of the night more than him. And the worst was the desertions. Four men had vanished the day before. They weren't dead. They'd just packed their things and melted away, preferring flight to a silent and certain death. The organization, which had numbered nearly sixty men, was crumbling.
He approached Koss's table, his scarred face twisted in barely contained fury. "So, we're too scared to go out now, Koss? Prefer to drown in beer instead of doing our job?"
Koss stood, swaying. "Boss, you don't get it. We can't fight... that. They're on the roofs, in the sewers... They're everywhere."
"They're men!" Groleau roared, his patience snapping. He grabbed Koss by the collar and slammed him against the wall. "And men bleed and die! It's you lot who've turned into cowards!"
He punched him, once, twice, three times—dull thuds that silenced the last murmurs. Koss collapsed, face bloody. Groleau turned to the others, his bloodshot eyes sweeping the room.
"The next one who talks to me about ghosts, I'll gut him to see if he's still got any guts! Clear?"
A deathly silence answered him. Then a man near the door stood slowly. It was Varly, a sellsword who'd joined the gang six months earlier.
"I'm leaving, Groleau," he said in a calm voice.
Groleau turned to him, surprised. "Where to, Varly?"
"Anywhere. Everywhere. I got paid to fight guards or rival gangs. Not to get my throat slit in my sleep by demons. Keep your cut of the coin. I just want to live."
He turned to leave. Groleau drew a dagger from his boot in a flash.
"No one leaves the Black Dogs," he growled.
He lunged forward, but Varly, a veteran, was ready. He dodged, drew his own blade, and a short, brutal fight ensued. It ended with a gruesome gurgle, Varly collapsing with Groleau's dagger buried in his throat.
Groleau rose, panting, the blood of his own man on his hands. He looked at the faces of his other thugs. He saw no loyalty there anymore, just icy fear turned against him. He'd just killed one of their own for a single word. He'd crossed a line. He was cornered; he had to act now.
"Enough!" he bellowed. "If they won't show themselves, we'll force 'em! Tomorrow night, we take ten men, and we torch Weavers' Alley. We'll give 'em a show. We'll burn a few families in their hovels. If those so-called 'ghosts' have any balls, they'll come try to stop us. And we'll be waiting."
The plan was barbaric, desperate. It was the howl of a wounded beast ready to destroy everything around it.
--------------------------------------
Meanwhile, in the relative calm of Theron's forge, the architects of this fear were holding their debrief. The large map of Flea Bottom was spread on the floor, lit by two lanterns. More than a dozen new black crosses had been added since their last meeting.
"Fourteen," said Tony, his voice devoid of emotion. He pointed to a new cross. "The docks patrol. Lira, Jem—clean work. Tally: fourteen targets eliminated. That's nearly a quarter of their fighting strength. Their revenues have dropped by half, according to Elara's reports. And the desertions are starting. Phase one is almost done."
Jem nodded, his face impassive. The hunting nights had changed him. He'd become quieter, more focused. Each successful op was a dose of vengeance that soothed the fire of his humiliation. He'd become a soldier, and Tony was his general. He questioned nothing anymore. The strategy worked. That was all that mattered.
Lira, though, was more pensive. She sat off to the side, polishing the mechanism of her crossbow with fierce concentration. She was the best of them, the deadliest. But every life she took—even a Black Dog's—seemed to leave a new layer of frost on her soul.
"How long's this gonna last, Tony?" she asked without looking up. "We can't keep killing 'em one by one forever."
"That's the point," Tony replied. "The goal isn't to kill them all. It's to break their spirit. Make them devour each other. The rumor about the King's assassins is working wonders. They're not even looking for us. They're hunting a ghost threat, a higher power. They feel powerless. And a powerless man becomes either a coward or a rabid beast."
As if to confirm his words, the door to the back courtyard opened, and Elara slipped inside, breathless, eyes wide.
"Groleau," she panted. "He's lost it. He killed Varly in front of everyone. And tomorrow... tomorrow night, he's gonna torch Weavers' Alley. To force you out. He figures if the folks fear him more than you, they'll turn you in."
Silence fell in the forge. The cold, surgical war Tony had been waging was about to turn into a direct, bloody confrontation. He'd wanted to bleed the beast slowly, but the beast, in its agony, threatened to devour innocents.
Tony stood. His face, usually so calm and analytical, hardened. A glacial glint passed through his eyes.
"Fine," he said in a calm voice. "He wants to force us out. Then we'll come out. He wants a show? We'll give him one."
He turned to his map, no longer as a strategist, but as an executioner choosing his tools.
"Phase two starts now. And it's gonna be bloody."