Dawn had just broken over King's Landing. Within the morning mist, on Rose Street, outside the city hall, a large number of smallfolk had already formed a long line.
They surrounded the city hall.
They were not there for bread. Ever since the Blacks had cut off sea transport, even the occasional soup kitchens for the poor had long since been dismantled.
These were petitioners.
"Make way! Make way!"
"Stand still! Wherever you came from, get back there!"
Deputy Commander Frey rode on horseback, his horse's hooves nearly trampling an old woman's foot.
The old woman shrank back quickly. The copper coins in her hands scattered across the ground, yet she did not dare pick them up. She knelt in the mud, head bowed low.
The gathered smallfolk saw the City Watch arrive to drive them off, yet they remained silent. They did not leave.
They endured it all in silence, only wanting their families in King's Landing to live a little better.
Frey had only just been promoted to deputy commander. With his past merits—and a fair number of gold dragons slipped to the Master of Laws, Jasper—he had finally secured the position.
Not easy. Not easy at all.
And now, this early in the morning, these wretches dared to gather outside the city hall and cause trouble!
Moments ago, he had still been in bed, holding a red-haired beauty from the riverlands to warm himself. Now, faced with this sudden disturbance, he had no choice but to come out.
He was in a foul mood.
If he didn't flay these wretches alive today—
Then his name wasn't Frey!
From atop his horse, Frey lashed out with his whip, striking a nearby commoner.
"Ah!"
The man cried out and stumbled back, not daring to complain.
Frey's temper flared as he shouted: "Are you all deaf?!"
"No gatherings allowed in front of the city hall!"
"Get the hell back to your rat holes!"
No one answered.
But no one moved, either.
Frey pulled his reins tight and narrowed his eyes as he swept his gaze across the crowd.
Most of them were flea bottom wretches, dockside laborers, and fishermen who made their living at sea. Their clothes were ragged and worn.
The crowd trembled, staring at the approaching guards.
There were five to six hundred people packed tightly before the city hall. In their hands they clutched copper pennies, silver stags—some even held bolts of cloth and iron pots, as if ready to empty out their entire households.
"My lord…" An old man with some courage stepped forward, forcing a smile onto his face.
"We're not here to cause trouble. We just want to ask… can the price of grain be lowered?"
Frey said nothing.
The old man swallowed and raised his pouch of coins high. "Last month, a sack of rye was twenty coppers. Now it's sixty."
"We laborers earn three coppers a day. Even if we spend it all on food, it's only enough to half-fill the bellies of a family of three…"
"That's right!"
"My lord—"
"We… we can't go on like this!"
A few voices rose from the crowd in agreement, but quickly fell silent again.
Frey's men had already drawn their swords halfway from their sheaths.
Leaning down from his saddle, Frey stared at the old man for a long moment—then suddenly smiled.
"What's your name?"
"I… I'm Will. I carry loads at the docks."
"Will. A porter." Frey nodded slowly.
"Then let me ask you—if no ships can come in from the sea, where does the grain come from?"
Will opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"I'll ask you again. The Black fleet has blockaded Blackwater Bay. House Velaryon's ships are roaming the outer waters. Grain can't be brought in. Is that price my doing?"
"Or the city hall's?"
Will lowered his head. "No… it's not…"
"Then tell me—who should you be asking?"
Will did not dare answer.
Frey straightened up in his saddle and shouted to the crowd: "Listen well! Where does grain come from?"
"And why can't it get in?"
"Because the rebel ships are blocking the sea!"
"And who ordered that blockade? That whore Rhaenyra!"
"She murdered the late king, and now she's rallying rebels—she means to starve you all to death!"
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone whispered, "But I heard the late king was—"
Before he could finish, a club smashed into his face.
Frey's men surged into the crowd, seized the young man who had spoken, and slammed him into the mud, kicking him wildly.
People nearby scrambled back. Some fell, trampled underfoot, screaming.
Frey rode forward at a slow pace, stopping in front of him, and rebuked him: "How did the late king die? Rhaenyra conspired with maesters and poisoned him."
"Who fed you that rumor?"
"Are you a Black spy?"
"Who's been whispering in your ears? Black spies as well."
He pointed at the young man pinned to the ground. "For all we know, this one's a Black spy."
The young man's face was covered in blood. Struggling, he shouted, "I'm not… I just heard it from someone…"
"From whom?"
"I… I forgot…"
Frey waved a hand. "Cut out his tongue. Let him learn his lesson."
"No!"
A flash of steel—blood splashed across the face of a nearby woman.
She let out a shriek, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed on the spot.
The crowd fell completely silent.
The old porter named Will slumped to the ground, still clutching his pouch of copper coins, his whole body trembling.
Frey guided his horse up to him, bent down, and patted Will's gaunt cheek.
"Old man, remember this well."
"If grain is dear, you go to Rhaenyra."
"If you can't fill your bellies, you go to Rhaenyra."
"If you want someone to blame, blame that kinslaying, kingslaying whore."
"Understood? You lowborn filth?"
Humiliated in public, Will endured it. He did not dare risk his life—he had a family of five.
The nearby smallfolk all fell silent, watching this treacherous and ruthless Lord Frey.
Frey, seated high on his horse, was satisfied as he looked over these unruly people of King's Landing.
He was not afraid they would resist. If they dared, they would learn how sharp his sword was.
After all, he had over a hundred fully armed guards at his side.
Cutting down these wretches would be no harder than chopping vegetables.
Besides, he had backing—the Master of Laws, Jasper.
Before, Prince Aemond Targaryen's personal guard had overseen King's Landing, but now those guards had all gone to Antlers.
Now, it was the Master of Laws who ruled the city.
If these smallfolk resisted, all the better—he could brand them rebels stirring unrest and earn another merit.
Commander Frey glared viciously at the crowd.
"Anyone who dares gather here again—next time, I'll slaughter his entire family."
He shouted to the surrounding people: "Disperse!"
"Anyone who gathers again will be thrown straight into the dungeons!"
"Or treated as rebels!"
At the mention of dungeons and rebels, the crowd immediately broke apart like a receding tide.
They might still manage half-full bellies now, even with food shortages.
But anyone thrown into the dungeons would likely starve to death in there…
Soon, the muddy ground was left with only the tongueless young man, writhing and clutching his mouth as blood seeped through his fingers.
Will took a few steps, then suddenly turned back to glance at the doors of the city hall.
They were shut tight. The guards at the entrance stood like stone, expressionless as they watched the people.
He remembered how, just over a year ago, when the late King Viserys I Targaryen was still alive, even during the harshest winters, the city hall would distribute relief grain to those who truly could not survive.
It was mixed with stones and sawdust, but at least it kept people alive.
Back then, grain prices would rise from time to time, but never without limit. Those who truly could not endure could still receive a bowl of porridge.
His work had been enough to feed his family—and fill their stomachs.
But now?
He lowered his head and looked at the pouch of copper coins in his hand. A family of five—and even working himself to the bone, he could only barely keep them half-fed.
Would the days ahead grow even harder?
Would people start to starve to death?
He had heard of the stories from Flea Bottom—the brown stew.
They said that stew was far cheaper than grain, but that meat…
The more he thought, the harder he wept.
Your Grace… the late king…
Look at the realm now.
Your children are tearing each other apart.
The Seven Kingdoms are bleeding.
He thought of Frey—that vile, scheming wretch—and felt a surge of hatred.
With vermin like these in power, how could the realm ever be governed well?
"Will, come on!" A companion tugged at him, pulling him out of his daze.
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