The sky over King's Landing had barely begun to lighten. In the morning mist on Rosby Street, outside the Guildhall, a crowd of commoners had already gathered.
They surrounded the Guildhall. They were not there for bread—since the Blacks had begun to cut off shipping, the few poor shelters had long been torn down. Now these commoners were there to petition.
"Clear the way! Clear the way! Get back to where you came from!"
Lieutenant Commander Frey rode his horse, its hooves nearly stepping on an old woman's foot. The old woman quickly shrank back; the copper coins in her hand scattered across the ground. She dared not pick them up, kneeling in the mud with her head bowed.
The gathered commoners saw the City Watch approaching to drive them away, but they remained silent and did not leave. They swallowed their anger, hoping only for their families in King's Landing to live a little better.
Frey had just been promoted to Lieutenant Commander—all his previous merits, plus a great many gold dragons spent bribing the Master of Laws, Jasper. Only then had he firmly secured this position. It had been hard-won.
And today, this very morning, these wretched paupers had dared to gather and cause trouble at the Guildhall!
Commander Frey had just been warming his body in bed with a red-haired Riverlands beauty when he had been forced to come out and deal with these people who suddenly made trouble. He was very angry now! If he did not skin these paupers alive, his name was not Frey!
Frey rode his horse, cracking his whip at the commoners nearby.
"Ah!" A commoner cried out and hastily retreated, not daring to complain.
Frey said angrily, "Are you all deaf? Crowds are forbidden at the Guildhall entrance! Get back to your rat holes!"
No one dared answer. But no one moved.
Frey reined in his horse, squinting as he surveyed the crowd. Most were paupers from Flea Bottom, laborers from the docks, and fishermen who went to sea. Their clothes were ragged. The crowd huddled and trembled, watching the arriving guardsmen.
There were perhaps five or six hundred people gathered in the square before the Guildhall. They clutched copper coins and silver stags; some even held cloth pouches and iron pots, as if they had brought their entire family's savings.
A bold old man stepped forward, his face ingratiating.
"We are not here to cause trouble. We only want to ask... can the price of grain be lowered?"
Frey said nothing.
The old man swallowed and lifted the coin purse in his hand. "Last month, a sack of rye was twenty copper coins. Now it has risen to sixty. Those of us who work hard earn three copper coins a day. For a family of three, the food will barely last half—"
"Yes!" "My lord!" "We are starving, we cannot go on!"
Several voices echoed in the crowd, but they were quickly suppressed again. Frey's soldiers had already half-drawn their swords.
Frey leaned forward on his horse, looked at the old man for a long time, and suddenly smiled.
"What is your name?"
"I... my name is Will. I carry cargo at the docks."
"Will the cargo-carrier." Frey nodded. "Then let me ask you: if the ships cannot come in, where does the food come from?"
Will opened his mouth and was speechless.
"Let me ask you again: the Blacks' fleet has blockaded Blackwater Bay. Valyrian ships prowl the open sea. Grain cannot be shipped. Was the price of this grain set by me? Or by the Guildhall?"
Will lowered his head. "No... not..."
"Then let me ask you: whom should you be asking?"
Will dared not say a word.
Frey straightened on his horse and shouted to the crowd. "Now listen to me! Where does food come from? Why can't grain come in? Because the traitors' ships have blocked the sea! Who sent those traitors to block it? That bitch Rhaenyra! She murdered the late king, and now she is gathering rebels to starve you to death!"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone whispered, "But I heard the late king was..."
Before he could finish, a club struck him in the face.
Frey's men burst into the crowd, seized the young man who had spoken, and kicked him into the mud. The people around fell back; some fell, were trampled, and cried out.
Frey rode his horse and slowly approached, cursing. "How did the late king die? Rhaenyra conspired with the Grand Maester to poison him! Who spread these rumors to you? That man is a spy of the Blacks!"
He pointed at the young man pinned to the ground and beaten. "He may be a spy of the Blacks."
The young man's face was covered in blood. He struggled to cry out, "I am not... I only heard people say..."
"Whom did you hear?"
"I... I forgot..."
Frey waved his hand. "Cut out his tongue, so he will have a long memory."
"No!"
The guardsman's blade flashed; blood splattered onto the face of a woman nearby. The woman screamed, rolled her eyes, and immediately fainted.
The crowd fell utterly silent.
The old man named Will crouched on the ground, still clutching his bag of copper coins, trembling all over.
Frey rode up to him, leaned down, and patted Will's thin face. "Old man, remember this. If food is expensive, take it up with Rhaenyra. If you can't eat enough, take it up with Rhaenyra. If you want to blame someone, blame that bitch who killed the king and his kin. Do you understand? You common goods?"
Will, publicly humiliated, endured it. He dared not resist. He still had a family of five.
The nearby commoners were silent, watching the treacherous, ruthless Master Frey.
Frey was very pleased on his horse, looking down at these people of King's Landing. He was not afraid of resistance from these troublesome commoners. If they dared to rise up, he would test the sharpness of his sword. He had over a hundred heavily armed guards around him. Cutting down these poor wretches was as easy as slicing melons and vegetables.
And he had someone above him—the Master of Laws, Jasper. Previously, Prince Aemond's personal guard had managed King's Landing, but now those guards had gone to Rook's Rest. Now the Master of Laws was in charge of King's Landing. If these commoners resisted, he would casually contribute—claim the traitors had organized a riot!
Commander Frey looked at these people with fierce eyes.
"If anyone dares to gather outside the Guildhall again, next time I will exterminate their entire family!"
Frey shouted to the commoners around him. "Disperse! Whoever dares to gather again, take them straight to the dungeons! Or treat them as traitors!"
The crowd heard the word "dungeons" and "traitors." They immediately retreated like a tide. They understood that the food shortage was only intermittent; they could barely manage half-full stomachs. But those sent to the dungeons would most likely starve to death inside.
Left behind in the mud was only the young man with his tongue cut out, writhing with his hands over his mouth, blood streaming from between his fingers.
Old Will took a few steps, then suddenly turned to look at the Guildhall door.
The door was shut. The guards stood like stones, expressionless, watching these people.
He remembered that more than a year ago, when the late King Viserys was still alive, even in the harsh winter, a little aid was given to those who truly could not survive. Though it was mixed with a little sawdust, at least it could save lives. Though the price of grain rose from time to time, there was always a limit, and those who truly could not survive could still get a bowl of porridge. His own labor could support his family and feed them.
But now?
He looked down at the bag of copper coins in his hand. A family of five, working to death, barely half-full. Would the days to come be harder? Would people start to starve? He had heard of Flea Bottom's legend—"bowl of brown." It was said that broth was far cheaper than grain. But the broth...
Thinking of this, he began to weep bitterly.
Your Grace, the late king... Look at the realm now. Your children are killing each other. The Seven Kingdoms are bleeding.
He thought of Frey, that vicious, cunning villain, and felt outrage.
With such insects, how can the realm be well governed?
"Will, come on!" His companions pulled him as he lost consciousness.
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