Flea Bottom, King's Landing
When the bells rang at dusk, the people of Flea Bottom knew at once that this night would not be an ordinary one.
Seven long peals sounded in succession—the signal of a royal emergency decree.
They were followed by a relentless sequence of short, sharp tolls: the call for curfew.
On most evenings, this was the hour when Flea Bottom came alive.
The brothels along Candle Lane would be lighting their lanterns, the gaming dens beside the reeking ditch filling with gamblers, and thieves slipping through the shadows in search of prey.
Tonight, the sound of iron-shod boots reached the streets before the bells had finished ringing.
"Everyone inside! Shut your doors at once! Any violators will be arrested!"
Royal soldiers poured into the narrow alleys.
These were not the old City Watchmen in their gilded cloaks, men who could be bribed with a handful of copper stars and taught to look away.
These were well-armed troops with cold eyes, faces hidden behind helms, spearheads glinting dully in the dying light.
Flea Bottom burst into chaos like a kicked anthill.
A hawker abandoned his cart and ran.
A drunk was dragged indoors by his companions.
A whore slammed her wooden door and barred it fast.
Those with nowhere to go—the homeless, the fugitives, the forgotten—melted into the deepest shadows, praying not to be seen.
At the main crossroads of Flea Bottom, Prince Aemond Targaryen sat astride a black courser, watching the district close around him.
Beside his horse stood Serra, clad in hardened leather armor fit for street fighting. By day she attended Princess Helaena, serving as her sworn shield.
"Are the exits sealed?" Aemond asked quietly.
"Four main ways out. Twelve alleys," Serra replied.
She spoke as if reciting a ledger.
The records were taken from the city rolls, though everyone knew most of Flea Bottom's residents existed outside them.
"One of the little birds says Billy Rivers, the Riverlands cutthroat, is hiding in the Leaking Pot," Serra added.
"I brought six men."
Little birds—that was Aemond's name for them.
Serra gathered the street children, fed them, taught them their letters, taught them faces and names.
In return, they scattered through King's Landing like sparrows, bringing back what they heard and saw.
Three days earlier, one such bird had reported that Billy Rivers had slipped into Flea Bottom and taken a room on the second floor of the Leaking Pot.
Aemond turned to the man at his side.
"Ser Hal," he said. "Take men with Serra. Kill the bastard."
Hal nodded and followed her.
The Leaking Pot
The tavern was thick with smoke, its guttering candles stinking of tallow.
Billy smashed his wooden cup against the table, ale splashing everywhere.
"Two days!" he snarled. "A bloody two-day curfew!"
He was built like a bear. A scar ran from his left brow to his right jaw, twisting his face into a permanent mockery of a smile.
His clothes were coarse and ill-fitting, but the double-bladed axe at his belt was black with sweat and well-used.
"Boss… keep it down," a thin man whispered, glancing toward the window. Torchlight moved outside.
"They won't find me," Billy growled, though his palms were slick.
"There's ten thousand rats in Flea Bottom. You think they'll search them one by one?"
He had fled the Riverlands in thirteen hard days, barely escaping a Bracken patrol.
Flea Bottom asked no questions—coin spoke louder than names.
At dawn he was meant to sail east on a smuggler's ship. Tyrosh, Lys—anywhere across the Narrow Sea. Once gone, the Brackens' bounty would mean nothing.
He remembered the Bracken girl.
Black curls. Amber eyes. The way she had sobbed, begging like a kitten.
When he tired of her, he strangled her and threw her body into the Red Fork.
And the three knights.
Their throats slit in the night, skulls split clean while they slept.
Perfect—until King's Landing sealed its gates.
Hooves sounded in the street.
Billy seized his axe. His men grabbed knives, clubs, rusted blades.
The door burst open.
Not from the front—from the back.
Three armored soldiers crashed in first, shields raised, spears leveled. A heartbeat later the main door flew wide and more men flooded in.
"By order of the Crown! Down on the ground!"
Civilians dropped instantly.
Billy's men hesitated.
Two died in that moment.
One tried the window—an arrow took him through the chest.
Another lunged with a knife, only to be stopped by a shield while a spear punched through his belly. He screamed, spilling his guts onto the floor.
It was over almost at once.
These soldiers fought as one: shields locked, spears striking in turn.
Billy's gang were killers, not soldiers.
The last man was pinned to the wall by three spears, twitching before he went still.
Silence fell, broken only by the groans of the dying and the crackle of torches.
Billy stood alone amid the corpses.
Ten spears ringed him.
A figure stepped in from the doorway.
Ser Hal, captain of Aemond's guard.
"Billy Rivers," Hal said calmly.
"House Bracken offers five hundred gold dragons for your head. Alive or dead."
Billy spat. "Just you, boy?"
"The law condemns you to death," Hal replied.
"Then come and try!"
Billy charged.
His axe smashed into a shield, knocking the soldier flat. He swung again, forcing two men back.
But the doorway was blocked. Spears overlapped. A crossbow waited at the window.
Billy knew.
He grinned, yellow teeth bared.
"That Bracken girl," he said. "She called me father before she died."
Hal raised his hand.
Billy ducked—
Three spears struck as one.
Thigh. Ribs. Then the third drove clean into his knee.
Billy screamed and fell.
Before he could move again, spears pierced his throat, chest, belly, back.
Dead.
"Take the head," Hal ordered.
"Pack it in lime. Send it to Stone Hedge. Tell House Bracken it's a gift."
Judgment
Torches lit the streets outside as doors were beaten open and names demanded.
The city rolls were useless.
Aemond had other methods.
"Let them accuse one another."
He stood upon a makeshift platform.
"Name thieves. Name rapists. Name murderers."
"At first, no one spoke.
Then an old man pointed with a shaking hand.
And the flood began.
By dawn, five hundred souls knelt in the square.
"By law," Hal said, bloodied but eager, "most must hang or lose hands."
Aemond studied them.
"No hangings. No mutilations."
Hal stared. "Then… release them?"
"There is an iron mine at Moonspire's Ridge," Aemond said quietly.
"It lacks workers."
Understanding dawned.
"They will labor," Aemond continued.
"Fed. Guarded. No pay. Three years."
"Survive it, and they walk free."
Hal swallowed. "Efficient."
"The gallows are spared," Aemond said.
"And the realm gains strength."
He paused.
"In time, this will be remembered as the night Flea Bottom learned fear again."