Pickled Meat Alley always smelled like salt and old blood.
On the second floor of the Old Fish tavern the lamps burned bright, but every window was nailed shut and draped with heavy cloth. A long wooden table ran down the center of the room, ringed by a dozen hard men who looked like they belonged on the street more than in any lord's hall. They ran protection rackets, dice games, dock crews, and the occasional Bowl of Brown stall. Their clothes were decent but never clean.
At the head of the table sat a man who was trying very hard to look important.
Ser Balman Byrch, newly appointed captain of the Flea Bottom detachment of the City Watch, wore polished mail under a gold-trimmed surcoat that was already starting to strain across his belly. His hair was thinning on top. Once upon a time he had been one of the handsomest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. Tonight he looked like a man who had traded glory for a steady paycheck and was still pretending the trade had been worth it.
Platters of stewed meat, hard bread, and charred sausages covered the table. Cheap ale flowed freely. The men raised their cups and praised Balman with the oily enthusiasm of people who expected something in return.
Balman ignored most of them. He tore into a greasy chicken leg, chewing with single-minded focus, grease running down his short, thick fingers. Only when the leg was stripped clean did he toss the bone onto his plate, pick up a fork, and tap it against his iron cup.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The room fell quiet. Every pair of eyes turned toward him.
Balman lifted his gaze, voice low and flat. "I didn't call you here to drink."
He let the words hang a moment, then continued, "Straight talk. I want to know how we take down Vito Corleone."
The name dropped like a stone into still water. Some men looked away. Others traded quick glances, trying to read the room.
A thick-necked brute called Crackjaw Togg licked his dry lips and spoke first. "You mean… teach the outsider a lesson, ser?"
Balman snorted. "Lesson? That bastard doesn't even acknowledge the rules."
He jabbed a finger at the table. "I've been in King's Landing my whole life. I take command of Flea Bottom and I haven't seen one damn gold dragon in protection fees or cooperation money. He shut it all down—free soup kitchens, free healing, the whole saint act. Bullshit!"
His voice rose. "If the smallfolk eat his bread and get their wounds stitched for free, why the hell would they keep paying us? He's treating Flea Bottom like his personal backyard."
Balman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So we come together and remove him. Whoever makes it happen gets my full support. After he's gone, whoever runs the streets on my watch can do any business they want—as long as the gold flows. The City Watch will look the other way."
Crackjaw's eyes lit up like a man who had just been handed the keys to the treasury. He leaned forward, voice eager. "Ser, we've already started. My lads mixed chopped rats into his porridge pots. Others are spreading word that the medicine from the Hall of Order makes children scream at night and turns their eyes green. We almost took out one of his grain carters the other day—"
The others jumped in, each trying to outdo the last with stories of sabotage and rumors. The room warmed with the easy camaraderie of men who believed victory was already theirs.
Crackjaw raised his cup toward Balman, grinning wide. "With you and the City Watch behind us, we're family now. I'll work like a dog for you, ser. Whatever you need—"
His words cut off mid-sentence.
Balman had drawn a dagger from inside his coat and stabbed him in the chest—once, twice, ten times in quick, brutal strokes. Hot blood sprayed across the table, splattering plates and faces.
Crackjaw's smug smile never left his face. His eyes widened in pure disbelief as he toppled forward, blood pooling beneath him.
Dead silence.
Every man at the table stared at the corpse.
"Eat your food," Balman said calmly, wiping the blade on a napkin. "All that talking ruins the appetite."
The others forced nervous laughs and picked up their cups again, pretending nothing had happened.
A man in the corner—fat, sweating—grabbed a piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth, desperate to prove obedience.
Balman glanced at him. "Oh? You're actually eating?"
Before the man could answer, Balman's other hand rose from under the table. A small, already-cocked hand crossbow rested in his palm.
The trigger clicked.
Thwack.
A short quarrel punched through the fat man's forehead. He slumped sideways, still chewing.
That was when the rest finally understood.
This wasn't a meeting. It was an execution.
Shouts and curses erupted. Men lunged for the door or tried to flip the table.
The tavern door exploded inward.
Dozens of armed men poured through, blades and axes gleaming. Every one of them wore the black-hand sigil on white.
Rorge led them. His noseless face split into a hideous grin as he stepped over the threshold.
"Thank you for your help, Ser Balman," he said, not even looking at the terrified gang leaders. "Lord Corleone will remember this."
Balman's earlier swagger vanished. He smiled like a salesman. "Please give Lord Corleone my warmest regards."
Rorge nodded once, then turned to the sheep waiting for slaughter. He pulled out a list and began checking faces.
"Well then," he said cheerfully, "shall we finish dinner?"
Screams filled the tavern.
At the same moment, the same scene played out in at least seven other locations across Flea Bottom—warehouses, alleys, abandoned forges.
In a dockside grain store, an old fisherman who had tried to poison a shipment lay dead beside a small black-hand banner placed on his chest, a silver moon left on top of it—payment for greed.
Under the old city wall, three surviving Sparrows' protectors swung from a beam, copper stars jammed into their mouths—payment for lies.
In a disused smithy near Steel Street, two apprentices who had been forging weapons for an attack on the Hall of Order died beside their furnace, their hands burned to charcoal along with the blades.
As the darkest hour before dawn gave way to gray light, Vito Corleone stood on the roof of the Hall of Order, looking out over the sleeping district.
Iggo and Rorge returned to report.
"Eighteen," the Dothraki said, licking his lips. He had clearly enjoyed the night's work.
"Two more than we expected," Rorge added.
Corleone nodded. "Rats that run always lead us to more holes. That's normal."
He glanced at Rorge. "And Lady Brienne?"
"She did her part," Rorge said. "Clean. Efficient. But… I don't think she liked it."
"No one likes it," Corleone murmured, eyes on the slowly brightening sky. "But sometimes, so the rest of the city can eat breakfast in peace, a few people have to do ugly work in the dark."
He turned to leave, pausing at the top of the stairs.
"Light the fires under the soup cauldrons."
"Daybreak is coming. There will be more people than yesterday lining up for porridge."
Rorge frowned. "My lord… we've already won. Why keep feeding those gutter rats?"
Corleone didn't turn around. "Because once you make a promise, Rorge, you keep it."
"Only then do people believe you. Only then do they respect you. Only then can you use them."
He descended the stairs.
In the east the sky was turning pale. Flea Bottom stirred back to life under new rules.
Far away, in the City Watch dungeon, four captured Sparrows' protectors took turns talking. Every name they gave would earn another small black flag somewhere in the city.
Order was being built the only way it ever could be—brick by bloody brick.