When the bells rang out in the dusk, the dwellers of Flea Bottom knew that tonight was no ordinary night.
The sudden seven long peals signified an emergency royal decree.
What followed was an unbroken succession of short, urgent tolls—the signal for curfew.
At this hour on most days, Flea Bottom's night life would only just be beginning.
The brothels of Candle Lane would be lighting their lanterns; gambling stalls by the stinking gutters would be ringed with bettors; thieves would be choosing their targets in the shadows.
But tonight, the sound of iron-shod boots striking the ground came even before the bells had finished.
"Back to your homes! Shut your doors at once! Any who defy the order will be arrested!"
The royal troops now marched in formation into the narrow alleys.
They were no longer the gold cloaks of old who would pocket a few coppers and turn a blind eye.
These were soldiers fully armed and arrayed, their gazes cold and unyielding. Beneath their helmets their expressions could not be seen—only the spearheads gleamed with chill light in the fading dusk.
Flea Bottom was like an anthill struck by a stick, thrown into chaos in an instant.
Peddlers pushed their carts homeward at a run. Drunkards were dragged indoors by their companions. Prostitutes slammed their wooden doors shut.
Those with nowhere to go—beggars, fugitives, the homeless—shrunk into deeper shadows, praying not to be seen.
At the mouth of Flea Bottom's main street, Aemond Targaryen sat astride a black warhorse, watching it all.
Tella stood beside Aemond's mount, clad in leather armor suited for tonight's work. In ordinary times she remained at Helaena's side, guarding the Princess.
"Are they all sealed?" Aemond asked, his voice low.
"Four main exits, twelve alley mouths. The registry has also been brought," Tella replied.
By registry she meant the property and household records of the city hall.
Though more than half of Flea Bottom's population was unregistered, it was a pretext nonetheless.
"The little birds say the Riverlands brigand Billy is at the Leaky Cauldron," Tella added.
"He has six men with him."
"Little birds" was the name Aemond had given those street children.
He had Tella arrange for them to be taken in, fed, and taught their letters—and to remember important faces.
In return, the children, like true sparrows, burrowed into every corner of King's Landing, bringing back all they heard and saw to the nest.
A day ago, the little birds told Tella that Billy, a notorious bandit from the Riverlands, had slipped into Flea Bottom several days prior and was now hiding in a second-floor room of the Leaky Cauldron.
Aemond glanced at Hall beside him and ordered, "Take men with Tella. Kill this brigand."
Hall nodded and went with Tella.
...
Inside the Leaky Cauldron, smoke hung thick in the air, the cheap candles giving off a harsh, choking stench.
Billy slammed his wooden tankard upon the table, ale splashing across its surface. "Two days! Bloody two days of curfew!"
He was built like a bear, broad and heavy. The scar that ran from his left brow to the right side of his jaw made his face seem forever twisted in a snarl.
He wore ill-fitting coarse linen, yet the haft of the double-bladed axe at his waist had been darkened and polished by the sweat of his hand.
"Boss, keep it down…" a thin man glanced nervously toward the window. Through the filthy glass, torchlight could be seen moving along the street.
"Afraid of what?" Billy lowered his voice, but his anger only deepened. "There are tens of thousands in Flea Bottom. Are they going to search every room? By the time they reach this place, I'll be long gone!"
Though he spoke so, his palms were slick with sweat.
It had taken thirteen days to flee from the Riverlands to King's Landing. On the way, he had nearly been seized by a Bracken patrol.
He had only just managed to slip into Flea Bottom.
In a place like this, no one asked where you came from—so long as you paid, you were master.
The plan had been to board a smuggler's ship before dawn tomorrow and cross the Narrow Sea.
Tyrosh or Lys—it mattered not. Once he left Westeros, the Bracken bounty would be no more than waste parchment.
He remembered that young lady of House Bracken.
Black curls, amber eyes. When she was seized, she had wet her skirts in terror.
Her pleas had sounded like a kitten's cry.
When he had grown tired of her, he strangled her and cast the body into the Red Fork.
And those three knights.
He had crept upon them as they camped, slit the throat of the one on watch, then split the skulls of the other two with his axe as they slept. Clean and swift.
It would have been a perfect escape, had King's Landing not suddenly closed its gates.
Then they heard the sound of hooves.
Night. Curfew. Horses.
They understood at once.
Billy snatched up his axe. His six men seized their weapons as well—short blades, clubs, rusted swords.
Bang!
The tavern door was smashed open—not from without, but from within. The back kitchen door was kicked in first. Three armored soldiers rushed in, shields forward, spears behind.
Almost at the same moment, the front door was battered open as more men poured inside.
"Royal troops! Lie down and you will not be slain!"
The common folk dropped flat at once, hands clasped over their heads.
Billy's men were a heartbeat too slow.
In that single heartbeat, two died.
One lackey tried to leap through the window. The instant he turned, an arrow flew in from outside. He fell like a felled log.
Another raised his blade and charged the soldiers at the door. A shield stopped him. From beside it, a second soldier thrust a spear, driving it into his belly.
A scream. He fell. His entrails spilled out.
The fighting ended in an instant.
The guards were well trained, five to a unit: three advancing with shields held high, two behind them thrusting with spears.
Billy's men were only vicious brigands. They could win when the wind favored them, but against the coordination of regular troops, they had no strength to strike back.
The last of his men was pierced through by three spears at once, pinned to the wall. His feet kicked twice in the air, then went still.
Silence fell over the tavern, broken only by the groans and ragged breathing of the wounded.
Billy stood in the center, axe in hand, seven of his men lying dead around him.
Ten soldiers encircled him, spears like a thicket.
In the torchlight beyond the doorway, a man stepped inside.
It was one of Aemond's subordinates — Hall, Captain of the Guard.
Hall did not draw his sword. He merely stood at the entrance, his gaze fixed upon Billy.
"Billy the Throat-Slasher…"
"House Bracken of the Riverlands has offered five hundred gold dragons for you—dead or alive."
Billy spat. "Bastard. You think you can take me?"
Hall gave a cold smile.
"For your crimes, by law, you are to hang."
"Then I'll test it!"
Billy roared and lunged forward, raising his axe high above his head and bringing it down with all his strength toward the nearest soldier. He meant to carve himself a path through.
The soldier raised his shield.
Clang!
Under the force of the blow, the shield-bearer staggered and fell.
Billy twisted with the motion, sweeping his axe sideways to drive back the two at his flank.
But he could not break through.
More soldiers blocked the doorway, spears layered one behind another. At the windows, crossbows were trained upon him.
Billy panted heavily, his eyes bloodshot. He knew it was over.
The tavern was too small, the men too many. No matter how fierce he was, he would not force his way out.
He fixed his gaze on the young officer and suddenly grinned, showing teeth yellowed and blackened.
"You know, boy, that little Bracken girl—before she died, she called me father."
He had not finished speaking.
Hall merely lifted a hand and made a small gesture.
Billy instinctively turned his head.
Before him, three soldiers advanced at once.
The first spear thrust for his thigh; he parried it.
The second struck for beneath his ribs; he barely evaded.
But then the third spear came from beneath a shield, leaving him no space to avoid it. It drove cleanly into his knee.
"Ah!"
Billy dropped to one knee, his axe falling from his grasp.
Before he could struggle, four more spears were already at his throat, chest, belly, and back.
In the blink of an eye, he was dead.
Hall cast him a brief look and gave his order.
"Cut off the head. Treat it with lime. Box it."
"Send it to House Bracken in the Riverlands. Tell them it is a gift."
"Yes, my lord."
Outside, torches stretched along the street like a burning serpent, casting harsh light upon the filth-streaked face of Flea Bottom.
Every household in Flea Bottom was being knocked upon and its occupants checked.
The city hall registers were riddled with holes—many were unrecorded, many used false names, and many who had long been dead still remained on the rolls.
But as Aemond looked upon those dragged out without proof of property, he had another method.
Let them inform upon one another.
He stood upon a hastily erected wooden platform and spoke to the mass of people below.
"Inform on one criminal—thief, robber, rapist, murderer."
"Except for those guilty of grave crimes, once verified, any who report a grave offender shall be released at once and rewarded with five silver stags."
"Report three minor offenders, and past offenses will not be pursued."
At first, no one moved.
In Flea Bottom, the rule was simple: do not inform, or you would not live to see the next day.
But when a gaunt old man, trembling, pointed toward a scar-faced man crouched in the corner and said, "He… he robbed the money for my grandson's medicine yesterday…"
The scar-faced man was dragged out.
Then more voices rose in accusation: he is a thief, he stole bread; he is a hired thug, he broke another man's leg; he raped the washerwoman at the end of the alley…
Once the snowball began to roll, it could not be stopped.
By the time dawn neared, a group of five or six hundred men were squatting in the open ground of Rotten Street.
Those who had committed grave crimes, once verified, were executed by beheading on the spot.
It left the informants with no lingering fear of reprisal.
The method was crude, but it worked.
He understood the temper of the people of King's Landing well enough.
Hall walked to Aemond's side. The burly captain of the guard had blood spattered across his face, and his spirit was high.
"Your Highness, by law, more than half of them should lose hands or feet—or hang."
Aemond looked at the gathered prisoners.
To maim most of them would waste too much labor.
He thought of the iron mines at Dragon's Roost.
An idea took shape.
"No hands cut. No hangings," Aemond said.
Hall blinked. "Then… release them?"
"How could that be?" Aemond turned his head toward him. "Are we not short of hands at the mines?"
"Yes, rather short."
"Then grant the mining slaves their freedom."
Hall's eyes widened. "Your Highness, those slaves were bought with coin."
"Give them their freedom," Aemond repeated. "Then have them form an education corps."
"An… education corps?" Hall stammered. "Teach what? Teach men to mine? Teach them letters?"
"Teach these men how to live as men again," Aemond said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Let the former slaves supervise these criminals in labor reform—mining, road building."
"Any hard or bitter task, let them do it."
"Provide food and lodging, but no wages. Three years of labor reform. Those who perform well may be released."
Hall stood with his mouth open.
"This… this method…" After a long moment, he managed a single word. "Brilliant."
"It saves the gallows, saves the chopping block, and gains us labor," Aemond said.
He paused.
"This unit shall henceforth be called the King's Correction Company."
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