Maekar handed the crying infant back to the Unsullied at his side, his gaze shifting to the bound woman and the five-name-day child placed beside their respective kin. His eyes lingered, cold and calculating, before he finally spoke.
"Too many men," he said cryptically, his voice low.
"and only one woman."
His gaze drifted toward the unconscious wife's husband, who stirred weakly beside her.
Maekar continued, his words sliding like a knife through the silence.
"Thankfully… some of my men have peculiar tastes."
His eyes moved deliberately to the little girl. (The Unsullied are cockless. This is an empty threat.)
The father, already pale, seemed to wither before him. All color drained from his face, his body trembling as if the very air had frozen him in place.
Maekar let the silence stretch, then tilted his head.
"What do you think? Will you do what is needed of you… to protect your families?"
The gang leader jerked his head up at once, his voice breaking with desperation.
"Aye, m'lord—we'll do as ye say! Whatever you want, we'll accomplish. Just—please—let them go unharmed."
"Good," Maekar said at last.
"My men will send you the exact hour the Gold Cloaks will pass by and the path they will take. If you strike from ambush, you might cut them down before they can raise steel against you."
He paused, his words sinking in as the hostages were led away, the fathers and husbands straining helplessly against their bonds to watch them go. Maekar's voice followed, calm and deliberate:
"Do not fear. I am no cruel man. Do your task well, and your kin will remain untouched—not a single hair harmed."
With that, Maekar turned, his black cloak flowing behind him as he slipped out of the run-down house and vanished into the press of weary smallfolk trudging through the night streets.
By the next day, Maekar sat within the Lord Commander's office, his own desk scattered with parchments. He signed absences for men reporting sick, his quill scratching steadily.
The quiet was broken suddenly by the thunder of rapid footsteps, then shouts echoing from the corridor outside.
The Lord Commander's head lifted, frowning. He opened his mouth to summon the guard when the doors burst open.
Several Gold Cloaks stumbled in at once. Two men supported a third between them—a soldier bloodied, his armor torn and punctured, his shoulder seeping crimson.
The Lord Commander pushed back from his chair, his voice booming over the chaos.
"Seven hells—what in the bloody name is going on here?"
The room fell silent, save for the ragged heaving of the wounded man. His face was pale, his breath shallow. The Lord Commander stepped forward, glaring down at him.
"Explain yourself, soldier."
The Gold Cloak tried to straighten, swaying in his comrades' grip. At last, his voice came, cracked and weak.
"We… we were ambushed, m'lord. Six of us… cut down. A gang struck us near Flea Bottom's edge. All dead. I… barely made it out…"
His strength failed. The words died on his tongue as his eyes rolled back. With a heavy groan, his body went limp, sagging into his comrades' arms, unconscious from blood loss.
The Lord Commander's face reddened with fury, his voice a low growl.
"I want every man not on duty here at once. Find out exactly what happened—and bring back the corpses of our brothers."
His fist slammed against the table. "Move, now!"
The Gold Cloaks scattered at once; the injured man hurried away to be treated. The chamber fell quiet save for the commander's ragged breathing. He dropped heavily into his chair, rubbing at his brow with a weary hand.
Maekar, seated across from him, broke the silence. "Do accidents like this happen?"
The Lord Commander shook his head firmly.
"Of course not. This is the first of its kind. A Gold Cloak may brawl with smallfolk, aye—but no smallfolk have ever dared to murder one of us outright. They know the consequences too well."
Maekar leaned back, his expression unreadable.
"Then we must show them the consequences."
The Lord Commander's face hardened, his jaw tight.
"Aye. We will."
Half an hour later, the courtyard outside the training yard was suffocating with More than three hundred Gold Cloaks crowded the grounds and upper levels.
Their rage was a palpable weight in the air. Faces twisted with anger, hands clenched around sword hilts and spears.
At the center, six bodies lay stretched out, each draped in its bloodied gold cloak. Dark stains seeped through the fabric, still fresh, still reeking.
The Lord Commander stood before them, his voice carrying over the silent ranks.
"It seems our reluctance to patrol into Flea Bottom has given the ragged gangs courage. Courage enough to lay hands upon our brothers… and slaughter them in cold blood."
His eyes swept the men, their fury mirrored in his own. His next words were sharp as steel. "This will not go unanswered."
Maekar stepped forward from the Lord Commander's side, his own gold cloak brushing against the stone as he moved. The gathered Gold Cloaks turned their eyes toward him, the weight of his presence cutting through the murmurs.
"I will personally travel to the Red Keep."
Maekar declared, his voice firm and carrying across the courtyard.
"I will speak with my grandsire, the King's Hand, and see that he readies whatever support the City Watch requires to put down these wretches—these fools who dare style themselves lords of Flea Bottom."
The men shifted, their anger finding shape in his words. Nods spread through the ranks, and a rumble of approval followed. Their faces hardened with grim satisfaction, ready for vengeance.
The answer from the Red Keep came swiftly: Do as you see fit.
The Hand of the King had given little more thought than that—some dead Gold Cloaks at the hands of gutter gangs were of no real concern to him.
But to the Watch, it was a blood debt.
Within hours, two hundred Gold Cloaks were mounted and ready, their armor gleaming dully in the torchlight, horses stamping impatiently on the cobblestones. The air was thick with anticipation, anger simmering like a storm about to break.
In the commander's chamber, the Lord Commander, Ser Dickon, stood over a wide parchment map of Flea Bottom. Maekar was beside him, silent but watchful, while eight captains formed a ring around the table.
Ser Dickon took four wooden markers and placed them down with deliberate weight.
"While we don't march into Flea Bottom often," he said, his voice carrying a growl,
"That doesn't mean we're blind to what festers within. These four points mark the dens of four separate gangs. Tonight, we'll make examples of them all—examples so sharp and so bloody the whole of King's Landing will take heed."
The Lord Commander's voice cut through the room.
"We will not strike only for vengeance. We'll take prisoners from these gangs, drag the truth out of them, and find the one behind the ambush."
Maekar stood still beside him, his face unreadable.
But in his mind, the thought came cold and certain.
'Search as you will. You'll find nothing. The peasants who survived the raid are already dead.'
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