[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 96 - 100

Chapter 96: Washing Away the Dust

Gendry and his score of recruits had reached the area they were charged with blockading.

This quarter lay upon Rhaenys's Hill, north of the Street of the Silent Sisters and near the Old Gate. It was a place of sumptuous brothels and the manses of high lords and wealthy merchants, adorned with sculptures, gardens, fountains, and murals that proclaimed the wealth of those who dwelled there.

Gendry had never set foot in this part of the city before, nor did he know a soul who resided here. He was certain the other twenty were equally strangers to such grandeur.

Hot Pie and many of the others were gawking at their surroundings, faces slack with wonder, becoming more and more awkward and ill at ease with each passing moment.

Looking at them, they resembled not soldiers on a mission, but poor country lads who had wandered into the chambers of a great lord—overwhelmed by finery they had never before witnessed.

Seeing their faltering composure, Gendry barked a command with decisive authority: "Forward march!"

Hot Pie and the others stiffened at once, as though their spines had been replaced with iron rods. Their expressions regained the seriousness of their purpose, and they moved forward in perfect formation, steps measured and precise.

"One two one, one two one, one two..." The cadence carried them forward.

Gendry paid no heed to the surprised glances of passersby, focusing instead on the task that lay before them.

After the morning's exercises, all the recruits had been given their assignments, divided into a thousand small teams of roughly twenty men each.

Eight hundred teams had been tasked with blockading and securing different sections of the city. One hundred more guarded the city gates, while the final hundred would assist various royal departments in carrying out their duties throughout King's Landing.

By good fortune, the Gold Cloaks and those recruits who had received divine grace had been appointed captains of their respective teams. Gendry himself had been granted command of his own unit and assigned to his own section of the city.

"Grid 239," read the glowing screen of divine grace that he now carried. His team was accordingly "Team 239," comprising twenty-one members including himself.

Though his command extended to a mere score of men, Gendry felt a deep contentment.

Less than a fortnight past, he had been a blacksmith's apprentice, hammering steel in a sweltering forge. Now he stood captain over twenty soldiers, blessed with the divine grace of His Grace himself. No man could ask for more.

Hope ran rampant through the barracks these days.

His Grace provided not only generous provisions and thoughtful care, but had established a system of rewards as clear as a mountain stream. Regardless of birth or breeding, any man who proved his worth through ability and service would receive his just due: gold dragons, honor, protection, and advancement.

Regardless of birth? At first, none had dared believe it. Yet living examples had paraded before their eyes, one after another.

Team leaders, centurions, quartermasters, scribes—exceptional recruits from all walks of life received divine grace and became officers. Among them were merchants' sons, orphans without name or kin, impoverished smallfolk, and even those who had once begged for crusts in the gutters of Flea Bottom.

All knew how ordinary—even wretched—the lives of these fortunate few had been.

Like their fellows, they had never imagined themselves rising above their station. They had thought of nothing beyond the day's labors, doing all they could for a full belly and a blanket against the night's chill.

They had answered the crown's call simply to sell their lives. None had harbored ambitions beyond survival.

After all, common wisdom held that once Lord Renly's rebellion was crushed, the army would naturally disband. Highborn officers would return to their families and comforts, while surviving soldiers would face the remainder of their days with scars and bitter memories.

The fortunate among them—those who managed to seize some small spoil of war—might quietly savor the tale of their service in their declining years.

The unlucky would toil until death, dependent on the charity of kin and acquaintances, enduring mockery, perhaps recounting tales of their martial days in exchange for a heel of bread or a cup of sour ale.

Everyone knew this to be the way of things.

This was war, and these were its soldiers. It had always been thus.

But now, the winds seemed to be shifting.

The purpose of this army did not appear to end with Lord Renly's defeat, and the soldiers were treated as more than mere grains of sand to be scattered by the first strong gust.

Demonstrate ability and loyalty, render meritorious service, transform from a nameless speck of dust into a man of substance—with each new example of such elevation, the eyes of the recruits grew brighter, their laughter and songs in the barracks more genuine.

By now, all believed that a future of promise awaited them as well.

Who among them could resist striving for advancement?

Gendry had secretly resolved that he would execute every task flawlessly, fight however many battles came his way, help crush Lord Renly's rebellion, and live to see its end. Perhaps, he dared to think, the rank of general was not beyond his reach.

General Gendry. By then, surely, he would need a surname to complete his dignity. What name should he take?

It all began today.

"Holy Land Radiance: Act One—Washing Away the Dust." Gendry studied the name of their mission on the brilliant light screen before him, heart swelling with confidence.

Dust. No matter how much of it had gathered in the corners of King's Landing, it remained mere dust—easily swept away.

Gendry tapped the map displayed on the light screen.

King's Landing had been divided into eight hundred "grids." Most appeared as white squares, signifying that forces were already in position and could seal their sections at a moment's notice.

A few remained black, indicating that teams had yet to arrive and required additional time.

Gendry knew that once the command was given, successfully blockaded grids would turn green on the map. Those encountering difficulties would show red, requiring support from nearby teams—though such aid could not come at the expense of their own assigned sectors.

Once all grids glowed green, the teams responsible for various investigative tasks would begin their work, appearing on all screens of divine grace as blue spheres of light.

Grids that had been thoroughly investigated would revert to white. Some teams would continue to guard their assigned areas, while others would join different grids or investigation units.

Throughout the operation, all teams must monitor the blue spheres with unwavering vigilance.

A steady pulsing sphere indicated that all proceeded as planned;

A flashing sphere marked with red stripes signaled that nearby teams should render assistance;

A sphere glowing entirely red meant the team was under attack and required immediate support from all available forces.

More dire situations lay beyond the concern of the teams scattered throughout the city. Such threats would be met by more powerful figures.

Gendry thought of the face with its hideous burns—Sandor Clegane, commander of the City Watch.

Fire. What terrible power it held.

Though he had witnessed it but once, Gendry knew with certainty that no man could stand against such might. This was an even more fearsome manifestation of divine grace.

At that moment, the final grid on the light screen turned from black to white.

Gendry's spirits soared. He signaled the team to ready themselves while he stood motionless, waiting for the command with anticipation thrumming in his veins.

Bang~

A glowing scroll emerged from the light screen, unfurling to reveal text limned in gold.

"Grid network activated."

Gendry turned to the twenty soldiers under his command and raised his right arm, drawing a deep breath. "Begin operation! Complete blockade—none to enter or leave!"

Hot Pie and the others snapped to attention and saluted. "Yes, captain!"

Gendry began issuing orders with the confidence of a man born to command. "You three, secure that alley. You five, block the main street. You two, position yourselves over there. You five, gather everyone within the grid and bring them to the center. Report any resistance immediately."

"Yes, captain!"

The team dispersed to their duties with practiced efficiency.

The faces of passersby shifted from confusion to panic as they observed the soldiers' actions. Some instinctively moved to flee.

Gendry drew the sword from his hip. "By order of His Grace, the entire city is under investigation! None shall move from where they stand! Take another step, and you forfeit your life for nothing!"

The cold light catching on the blade's edge proved most persuasive.

Looking at the crowd, now grown still as stone, Gendry did not allow himself to relax his vigilance.

Many powerful figures dwelled in this quarter—men and women accustomed to commanding others, who wielded considerable influence. Might some among them be the "dust" they sought?

He withdrew a white steel sphere from his belt and activated its mechanism.

Let us hope this treasure proves its worth.

Chapter 97: Second Purge Team

While his men carried out their duties with brisk efficiency, Tyrion eyed the white steel sphere in Jon Snow's hand with undisguised curiosity.

"Jon, what manner of treasure is this?" he asked, cocking his head.

The morning's revelations had expanded Tyrion's understanding of what might be possible in this world. He had never imagined that magic—no, divine grace, as it must now be called—could manifest in such varied and practical ways.

Jon stared intently at the warning sphere nestled in his palm. Only when he confirmed that the device showed no signs of disturbance did the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat.

"Lord Tyrion, they call it the Eye of Vigilance," he explained. "A recent creation from the Research Department. Once activated, it can perceive the entire boundary of our assigned grid. Should anything cross that boundary, the Eye will alert us and capture an image of the intruder."

Jon ran his thumb over the sphere's smooth surface. "Most often, that intruder will be a person—our quarry."

Though this was the Eye's first deployment in the field, and Jon had possessed it for a mere two days, he and his men had drilled repeatedly in its use. They had simulated responses to the Eye's warnings, practiced apprehending suspects, all to ensure that nothing would go awry during this crucial operation.

Despite such thorough preparation, Jon fervently hoped that the day would pass in tranquility, and that steel would remain sheathed throughout.

"What a marvel," Tyrion exclaimed with genuine admiration. "Qyburn is more capable than I suspected. He's been at his work but a short while, and already he's produced such wonders. The man bears watching."

Tyrion couldn't help but think that this Eye of Vigilance might serve purposes far beyond mere perimeter defense.

Jon chuckled softly. "Indeed. The Research Department's reputation has spread throughout King's Landing. Mothers now frighten disobedient children with tales of it."

Having escorted numerous prisoners to Qyburn's domain, Jon had acquired a passing familiarity with the Research Department.

He knew that while the Department did conduct many experiments requiring human subjects, most were quite harmless and rarely resulted in any lasting harm.

Yet somehow, the whispers in the streets had grown ever more lurid. Some swore that Qyburn consumed human hearts daily, using the flesh of infants and the matter of men's brains to concoct elixirs that extended his life and curried favor with the highborn.

Despite such dark rumors—or perhaps because of them—King's Landing had grown more peaceful of late, making Jon's patrols less onerous.

Under the shadow of Qyburn's fearsome reputation, even habitual criminals hesitated to ply their trades, dreading that a second capture would send them not to the dungeons, but to the Research Department, where torments beyond imagining surely awaited.

Jon could only envy such influence.

He was but a junior officer of no particular renown, while Qyburn—a man cast out by the Citadel—now governed a domain of his own, enjoyed the king's deepest trust, and created wonders that would have been dismissed as madmen's ravings a year prior.

Without question, Qyburn's name would find its place in histories yet unwritten.

Renly's rebellion. Jon knew this conflict represented his finest opportunity to distinguish himself in battle, to perform deeds that might reach Robb's ears, even in distant Winterfell.

Winterfell. Jon could scarcely recall its grey walls and towers now. Yet his father's solemn face remained clear in his mind's eye.

Lord Eddard had returned north to face the wildling threat and the increasingly active Others beyond the Wall. That too must be a hard campaign, fraught with peril but rich in glory. Jon prayed silently for the safety of all who stood against the gathering dark.

Though he missed the North and its people with an ache that never truly subsided, Jon harbored no regrets. The die had been cast; his place was here, in the south, serving a different kind of duty.

"Jon, it seems we find ourselves falling behind," Tyrion sighed, glancing at the glowing screen of divine grace he carried.

Jon consulted his own screen. Grid six hundred and one, in the southern quarter of the city, had already turned white. Inspection complete. How swift they move!

Surveying the broader map of the city, Jon observed that the other six teams appeared to be progressing at roughly the same pace as his own, still engaged with their first assigned grids. Thankfully, no warning signals had yet appeared.

Jon knew that the Hound—Sandor Clegane, his current commander—led the sixth team, which had completed its first inspection with such remarkable speed.

Tyrion affected nonchalance. "Your Commander Sandor displays his customary impatience. One wonders if his inspection was as thorough as it might have been."

Each team bore responsibility for a full hundred grids, ensuring that the day would be long and arduous for all.

"No matter," Tyrion said, setting the matter aside. "Let us proceed with our own inspection, Jon, lest we earn the distinction of being the most dilatory team." He set his short legs in motion, waddling into the luxurious establishment that stood before them.

This marked the final checkpoint in grid two hundred and one.

Mercifully, the Second Purge Team under Tyrion's command had thus far encountered no significant resistance or opposition. Their work proceeded as smoothly as fine Arbor gold poured from a flagon.

The initial planning had been meticulous in its detail.

Squads tasked with securing the grid perimeter and intelligence officers within the team gathered information about every person dwelling or working within their assigned area.

Simultaneously, the team inspected shops, workshops, land holdings, contracts of affiliation, and valuables, clarifying ownership and tracing possessions to their earliest verifiable source to determine legitimacy and legality.

The final judgment in all such matters fell, of course, to Tyrion himself.

This fine establishment proved no exception to the routine, with all planned procedures unfolding within its walls according to design.

Unfortunately, the proprietor of the hotel was absent, leaving several servants and stewards to speak on his behalf. These unfortunates now faced rigorous questioning from the king's scribes, who demanded that they repeat everything they knew again and again.

Meanwhile, soldiers methodically breached each room, searching for documents, correspondence, and personal effects. They required on-site declarations and explanations for each item's provenance; anything inadequately accounted for would be treated as unclaimed property.

To most, this felt indistinguishable from common robbery.

Yet these peculiar thieves showed a modicum of conscience, offering each person an opportunity to reclaim their possessions. With appropriate justification and sufficient evidence, one might hope to recover what was rightfully theirs.

Stranger still, many septons and septas moved among the soldiers, proclaiming that this upheaval served to cleanse the filth from men's hearts, to root out Renly's assassins from King's Landing, and to restore purity and peace to the holy city.

After recovering their belongings—those fortunate enough to do so—people silently accepted this explanation.

The gods had manifested their power for all to see, yet tragedy had still befallen the Great Sept of Baelor. Small wonder, then, that such disruption followed.

After all, they reasoned, if it serves the gods, a bit of inconvenience is a small price to pay.

Eventually, however, one man chose to resist. His motivation was simple: his wealth had not been returned to him. The onlookers regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and wariness, content to observe from a safe distance.

"What commotion is this? Who raises his voice?" A sharp demand cut through the murmurs of the crowd.

The throng parted before the speaker. Tyrion Lannister approached unhurriedly, appraising the white-haired man who stood before him with defiance etched into the lines of his face.

"What do you intend by this display?" Tyrion asked, his expression suggesting genuine bewilderment.

The white-haired man trembled with barely contained fury. "My lord, I have abided by every law of the Seven Kingdoms. By what right do you withhold the gold dragons found in my chambers?"

Tyrion glanced toward his subordinates. A scribe immediately leaned close to whisper in his ear.

The white-haired man grew more agitated. "Those coins are held in trust for my clients. Let me remind you, my lord, my clients are men of substance and standing—prominent figures in King's Landing!"

Tyrion surveyed the room, taking in its opulent furnishings and elegant appointments. "You are a moneylender, then?"

The white-haired man nodded, his bearing suggesting righteousness and wounded dignity.

Tyrion's laugh was soft and brief. "Seize him."

Before the white-haired man could react, two gold cloaks stepped forward and pinned his arms behind his back with practiced efficiency.

Tyrion addressed the assembled crowd, his voice carrying clearly to all corners of the room. "His Grace has issued an unambiguous decree that any private lending or gathering of funds is henceforth deemed unlawful."

He fixed the white-haired man with a pointed stare. "I ask you: have you obtained royal dispensation for your activities?"

Decree? When did any such proclamation...? The white-haired man attempted to voice his objection, but the gold cloaks twisted his arms sharply. The sudden pain forced an inarticulate cry from his lips instead of coherent words.

"Regardless of who may claim ownership of these funds," Tyrion continued, "they now constitute illicit gains and will naturally be collected as evidence of criminal enterprise."

He cocked his head, as though genuinely curious. "Unless you have some further justification to offer?"

The entire episode had transpired in the span of minutes. Tyrion waved a hand dismissively, signaling its conclusion. "Remove him. The rest of you are dismissed."

The inspection of the grid was complete. Everything had proceeded exactly as planned.

Chapter 98: Flea Bottom

The sun stood at its zenith.

The Fourth Clearance Team faced at last its greatest trial: Flea Bottom.

Here dwelled the most wretched souls in all of King's Landing, their homes a tangle of narrow alleys and rickety hovels thrown together with little thought for safety or sanity. This festering warren provided the only shelter many beggars, orphans, and the dispossessed would ever know.

It was also the city's most malignant growth—a tumor that had gone untreated for centuries.

For as long as men remembered, Flea Bottom had been a place where law held no sway, known throughout the realm for its chaos and the pervasive stench that gave even hardened warriors pause.

The gold cloaks on patrol routinely skirted its boundaries, content to let this slum and its discarded inhabitants rot in their own filth.

But today, even Flea Bottom fell within the scope of the royal purge.

The task before the Fourth Clearance Team was formidable indeed.

Standing at the edge of grid four hundred and forty-one, Theon Greyjoy's face twisted with undisguised revulsion.

"Flea Bottom is even more loathsome than I had imagined," he muttered, wrinkling his nose. "A pigsty would be cleaner by half."

Since donning the gold cloak, Theon had confined his patrols to the Red Keep and the more prosperous quarters of the city. This marked his first glimpse of Flea Bottom in all its squalid glory.

It was fouler than anything his mind could have conjured—a wasteland of refuse that assaulted the senses and offended the soul.

Theon found himself reluctant to set foot within its bounds.

No wonder His Grace intended to raze it and begin anew. Theon recalled the task the king had personally entrusted to him and felt the weight of its difficulty settle more heavily upon his shoulders.

Colonel Jorah Mormont of the Department of the Army stood beside him, his weathered face set in grim lines.

"Commander Theon," he said, his voice low and grave, "the situation here presents unique challenges. Not only is the terrain complex and densely populated, but the inhabitants themselves are disorderly and unschooled in civil obedience. I fear His Grace's commands will not be easily fulfilled."

From their interactions throughout the morning, Jorah had formed a measured assessment of Theon—neither overly positive nor unduly harsh. In essence, he judged him a young man eager to prove his worth, prideful and impetuous in the manner of youth.

Yet Jorah did not underestimate this inexperienced colleague.

Regardless of House Greyjoy's storied lineage, Theon's present position alone testified to his standing in the king's esteem.

The officers of the Department of the Army now bore ranks such as General, Colonel, Lieutenant Colonel, and Major, with the Kingsguard—reorganized from the King's Landing garrison—following a similar structure.

As commander of the Kingsguard, Theon oversaw a thousand men and stood as Jorah's equal in rank, if not experience.

Moreover, having just reached his majority, Theon's future prospects far outshone those of men twice his age. A young man to be reckoned with, beyond question.

Jorah found himself sighing inwardly. When this war concludes, perhaps it will be time to journey home for a spell and leave this stage to the young bloods—the next generation of the Seven Kingdoms.

Theon's expression gradually settled into something approaching composure. "I still require your support, Colonel Jorah. If we combine our efforts, no amount of filth or stubbornness in Flea Bottom can withstand His Grace's will. It must be cleansed, as he commands."

Jorah gazed at the warren of alleys before them. "What do we await, then? Let us begin."

Theon raised a hand, and at once the Fourth Clearance Team advanced into grid four hundred and forty-one.

The denizens within were already stirring with unease.

The morning's events had been most unusual. Many had been at rest when more than a score of soldiers burst upon them without warning, herding them into an open space like cattle and forbidding any movement, as though they were common criminals awaiting judgment.

In itself, such treatment was hardly noteworthy. Life in Flea Bottom meant occasional harassment by gold cloaks was as inevitable as the stench. Most had learned the futility of resistance.

Yet the soldiers' methods had begun to take a strange turn.

Every inhabitant knew well the countless hidden passages and bolt-holes that honeycombed the slum. Even those who had dwelled there for decades would hesitate to claim complete knowledge of its secrets. It seemed impossible that a mere score of newly arrived soldiers could flush out every person concealed within.

Those unfortunate enough to be dragged to the gathering place had initially found dark humor in their situation, even exchanging knowing glances with companions still hidden in the shadows.

But then they witnessed something that chilled their blood: the lead soldier consulted a small white sphere, glanced at it from time to time, and directed his men with uncanny precision. Those they captured were invariably the cleverest, the most adept at concealment.

The implications were terrifying.

Everyone understood what this meant. Flea Bottom was no longer the sanctuary it had always been. Should the gold cloaks ever truly set their minds to it, they could overturn the entire slum with just a few hundred men!

As more and more gathered in the open space, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. What did the gold cloaks intend?

None could say.

Occasionally, someone summoned the courage to ask directly, only to receive evasive answers or incomprehensible jargon.

Absent clear information, people began to formulate their own theories.

Some believed the gold cloaks sought a highborn fugitive hiding among them. Others feared for the few copper stars they had managed to squirrel away. Still others whispered of darker possibilities—that the gold cloaks meant to kill them all, down to the last child.

Massacre. The thought took root in their collective consciousness.

Why not? To outsiders, Flea Bottom represented nothing but stench, filth, and sin—a blight that should never have been permitted to exist. Without Flea Bottom, the highborn would likely applaud and carry on with their feasts and tourneys, unburdened by the knowledge of such squalor.

Consider the present circumstances: everyone gathered in one place, the gold cloaks unwilling to release even a single soul. What other purpose could this serve?

The rhythmic clatter of well-made armor announced the approach of a large contingent of soldiers.

Hundreds of wary eyes turned toward the sound, revealing a spectrum of emotions—numbness, anxiety, panic, disgust, and naked resentment.

The officer at their head wore black armor beneath a gold-edged cloak. He was startlingly young, his beard still patchy where it grew at all.

"By decree of His Grace," he announced in a voice that carried across the gathering, "I, Theon Greyjoy, commander of the Kingsguard, lead this team to cleanse Flea Bottom, to order its chaos, and to root out any rebels who may lurk within. All must cooperate or face the king's justice!"

At a wave of his hand, a group of men bearing crystal spheres stepped forward. Their garments were conspicuously clean, marking them as foreign to this place of perpetual grime.

One of the crystal orbs illuminated before a man known to his fellows as Black Dog. Then, to the astonishment of all, it spoke.

"Lemon Cakes," it intoned in a voice that seemed to emerge from nowhere, "declare what wealth you possess, what assets you can claim, by what means you acquired them, and who will vouch for their legitimate provenance."

Black Dog stared dumbly at the orb for several heartbeats before his mind returned to the silver stag he had received during the king's coronation.

To placate the official recording names that day, he had invented a new identity for himself on the spot: Lemon Cakes.

Before that day, Black Dog had never tasted such a delicacy, knowing it only by the tantalizing aroma that wafted from passing carts laden with goods for highborn tables.

He couldn't recall why the name had come to him in that moment of need.

But after receiving the silver stag, Black Dog had indulged himself fully. The memory of those cakes crumbling on his tongue, sweet beyond imagining, remained vivid even now.

My wealth and assets?

The fierce glint in Black Dog's eyes gradually dimmed, transforming into confusion tinged with a strange sadness. A bitter smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"None," he replied simply. "I have nothing."

The crystal ball pulsed with inner light. "Lemon Cakes, do you answer the royal summons to take up arms against the rebels in His Grace's name?"

Black Dog glanced around. Many of his neighbors faced similar orbs, their faces betraying a mixture of bewilderment and dread.

Take up a sword and sell my life for the king who sits so high above us all?

The memory of that silver stag returned, and with it the taste of those sweet cakes. Yet Black Dog valued his life above such fleeting pleasures.

He racked his brain, seeking a response that might satisfy without committing him to certain death.

"How could one such as me be worthy of the battlefield?" he asked, injecting a note of self-deprecation. "I would surely bring naught but hindrance. Best I remain where I belong."

The crystal sphere flashed once more. "Lemon Cakes, individual of no fixed identity or means, assigned to the engineering corps. Execute transfer immediately."

Engineering corps? Before Black Dog could grasp the meaning of these words, two shadows fell across him, followed by the iron grip of four strong hands.

As they forced him down, Black Dog twisted his head to glimpse the scene around him. Shining armor surrounded him in every direction, a wall of steel from which there could be no escape.

No one can flee this net, he thought with a mixture of bitter amusement and impotent rage. The trap had closed, and all of Flea Bottom was caught within its jaws.

Chapter 99: The One with Nothing

By the time they reached the four hundred and forty-ninth grid, the Fourth Purge Squad had rounded up between four and five thousand souls deemed "unregistered individuals."

Theon Greyjoy had not anticipated the magnitude of what they would find.

Beggars, orphans, the maimed, the aged, the simple-minded, the diseased, the willfully degenerate—these wretched specimens comprised the greater part of Flea Bottom's inhabitants, each lacking any legitimate means of sustenance.

How have they endured for so long? he wondered.

Theon could not fathom the full extent of their struggle, but he knew with certainty that their means of survival must be as dark as they were desperate—born of sin, compelled by sin, and skilled in the creation of further sin.

It truly was time to cleanse such a place. Theon began to comprehend the king's determination.

Yet such cleansing came with its own difficulties.

The denizens of Flea Bottom proved as slippery as eels freshly pulled from the sea, with precious few willing to comply with the squad's directives. To implement their plans, the Purge Squad had been forced to adopt more coercive measures.

His Grace had spoken plainly: these people could no longer be permitted to wallow in their degradation. A path forward must be forged, for the good of King's Landing and for their own futures. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms could no longer tolerate beggars or thieves within its walls.

Unfortunately, Theon doubted the objects of this benevolence shared such enlightened views.

Though swords had been drawn and threats made, should even one desperate soul lose all reason and incite a riot, the situation could rapidly become untenable.

Theon surveyed the increasingly chaotic scene, his expression growing more grave with each passing moment.

Too many required forcible detention. Each soldier must watch over more than a dozen captives, and though these unfortunates had been bound together with rope, their collective presence remained deeply unsettling.

"Jorah," Theon called, trying to mask his concern, "should we not summon reinforcements?"

The situation, though perilous, remained outwardly calm. Perhaps his fears were groundless, and matters were well in hand.

Theon was reluctant to acknowledge the precariousness of their position.

Jorah Mormont cast his gaze across the huddled masses and decisively activated an alert on his screen of divine grace. "What are you waiting for? Send for men at once. A few hundred will not suffice for what lies ahead."

A mob in full riot would care nothing for drawn steel. Should thousands rise up together, even a well-trained force could not hope to suppress them without significant losses.

"Once reinforcements arrive, these prisoners must be removed immediately," Jorah said, his weather-beaten face creased with concern as he regarded the thousands already detained.

"We cannot allow the remaining inhabitants to witness the fate of those we've captured. They will not see wisdom in our actions—only cause for mounting panic, until finally they lose all reason and with it, all fear of our swords."

Sound counsel, Theon thought, silently activating the alert function on his own light screen.

Regret gnawed at him now. He should have called for additional forces when they detained the first unregistered person; after all, he had known even then what resistance they might face.

Before Flea Bottom could be torn down and rebuilt, it would surely offer one final, desperate struggle.

Theon and the Fourth Purge Squad proceeded with caution, electing to hold their position at the four hundred and forty-ninth grid while awaiting reinforcements, hoping to ensure the mission's completion without further incident.

Among the unregistered individuals bound together and held under guard, the one called Black Dog stared outward with keen, watchful eyes.

Flea Bottom's continued existence over countless years could not be attributed solely to its harsh conditions or the steady influx of the city's poorest souls. Black Dog knew another critical factor: the gangs and the powerful figures who stood behind them, unseen but ever-present.

Today, the gold cloaks had created such tumult that their intentions could not be clearer—they meant to overturn Flea Bottom entirely. Anyone with sense could guess that those who depended on this warren for their livelihood would offer resistance.

The gangs would certainly take action. Black Dog clung to this hope like a drowning man to flotsam.

When that moment came, the gold cloaks would find themselves overwhelmed. If he could seize the chance to break free of his bonds and conceal himself where none might find him, he need only endure for a day or two. Surely the gold cloaks would not maintain their vigil indefinitely.

Though the gold cloaks' promises sounded fair enough, Black Dog had no interest in their so-called "construction team."

His understanding of the world might be limited, but he grasped one principle with perfect clarity: nothing of value came without cost, and hasty schemes rarely yielded good results.

He would rather continue his life in Flea Bottom, however squalid.

Black Dog sought out known gang members among the crowd, his gaze conveying encouragement and expectation. If only he could stand with them and resist their captors.

If he could but escape this day, that would suffice. It was his sole thought, repeating like a prayer.

For now, the gold cloaks held the advantage with their sharp steel, but they could not return day after day to instill fear. Flea Bottom would eventually revert to its natural state.

If he could only survive this day.

Whether influenced by Black Dog's hopeful stare or driven by his own desperation, someone finally spoke out.

"Sir gold cloak," called a voice from the crowd, "might I inquire as to your true purpose here? This may be but lowly Flea Bottom, yet it remains the only home any of us have known. Who among us would not feel fear at your arrival?"

Theon fixed the speaker with a baleful glare, his eyes promising violence.

"How dare you address me thus! I'll say it once more: by royal decree, we are here to purge Flea Bottom of rebels. All must comply without question. Do you seek to cause discord?"

Several soldiers raised their crossbows, training them on the man who had dared speak.

The man met Theon's gaze without flinching, seeming to believe the young commander would not act rashly. "From the moment of your arrival, my lord, you have demanded proof of ownership for these hovels and meager possessions, yet you appear to have forgotten where you stand. This is Flea Bottom. How many here could produce the documents or contracts you require?"

The crowd stirred restlessly. Soldiers ignited their swords with an eerie glow, sternly warning the masses back into submission.

The man continued, undaunted. "If I understand your meaning, are we to believe that none may continue to dwell in these shacks, dilapidated though they be, even those which have lacked a clear owner for hundreds of years?"

"What fate do you intend for these dwellings? Will they stand empty, or will you raze them entirely?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled throng.

What a venomous mind! Theon nearly gave the order for the man to be shot where he stood.

Jorah's hand closed around his arm. Theon turned, and Jorah shook his head slightly, his eyes counseling restraint.

The reinforcements had not yet arrived. Should blood be spilled and the scene descend into chaos...

Theon regarded the man with cold contempt. "And what would you propose instead? That Flea Bottom continue to fester like an open wound?"

Just delay until help arrives, he reminded himself.

"You live in such hardship, yet His Grace, in his mercy, offers you a brighter path. Only the greatest fool in all the realm would refuse such an opportunity!"

The soldiers conveyed their own disdain and bewilderment through looks and posture, appearing genuinely perplexed by the resistance they now faced.

The crowd's resolve began to waver.

Thus far, no blood had been shed. The septons and septas among the king's forces appeared genuine in their piety and gentle in their manner.

Perhaps this change truly boded well for them?

The outspoken man laughed harshly, gesturing toward those bound together on the ground. "Fine words cost nothing, my lord. When we all lie trussed like those poor souls, will not our fate rest entirely in your hands?"

"Why not release us now? Wait a few days. If your intentions are truly benevolent, we are not so dull-witted that we cannot recognize our own advantage."

Voices of assent grew louder. This proposal aligned perfectly with the desires of the majority.

Theon assessed their situation. Half his soldiers guarded the prisoners, dozens stood watch over the crowd, dozens more searched the surrounding area, and another one or two hundred secured the grid's perimeter.

Soon, several small teams arrived as reinforcement. Theon studied the light screen intently—dozens, perhaps hundreds of small teams now approached Flea Bottom. They would arrive within a quarter-hour.

"Halt! Stand fast!" Jorah's voice thundered suddenly.

Theon whipped his head around. Several figures were already fleeing toward the adjacent grid—one that had yet to be secured. The outspoken man had vanished, and more among the crowd grew visibly restless.

"Guard the prisoners! Secure the perimeter!" Theon ordered through clenched teeth.

In the end, it seemed, steel would speak when words failed.

Chapter 100: Red on the Map

Gendry stared in mute horror at the Light of Grace.

On its glowing surface, a sphere to the south flashed crimson as a fresh wound, while more than a dozen surrounding grids shifted from green to red in swift succession, forming a spreading stain upon the map.

That was the Fourth Clearance Team. That was Flea Bottom.

"All Guards squad leaders and their men will follow me to provide support!" Commander Jon Snow's voice rang out, brooking no argument.

Gendry, as part of the Guards, found his Light of Grace already displaying his amended orders: obey the command of Jon Snow, Second Commander of the Guards, and assist in maintaining the stability of the alert grid.

"Form ranks! Count off!" Commander Jon's instructions were terse as a bowstring drawn taut.

Without hesitation, Gendry gathered his twenty companions and brought them to attention, taking position at the right flank to oversee them, barking "One-and-twenty" when his turn came in the count.

The final number Gendry heard was six-and-thirty.

"Running formation! Move out!" Commander Jon ordered, then set off at a brisk pace, six-and-thirty squads falling in behind him like the tail of a great serpent.

Even now, Gendry's thoughts remained clouded, as though wrapped in fog.

The entire process had unfolded with such haste that it left no time for reflection—only the instinctive responses drilled into them day after day during training.

As the streets and buildings flashed by on either side, Gendry at last found a moment to gather his wits and consider what he had witnessed, and what they might soon face.

Earlier, the two hundred and thirty-ninth grid under Gendry's charge had been successfully inspected.

Though the Clearance Team had not arrived until nearly midday, the lengthy wait had left those within the grid restless and ill-tempered. Some had even attempted to slip across the boundary. Yet overall, calm had prevailed, and no blood had been spilled.

The subsequent arrival of the Hand of the King, Lord Tyrion, and Commander Jon had solidified control of the situation entirely.

A formidable contingent of nearly a thousand men had turned the area inside out. Every item in more than a dozen shops and brothels, more than a score of manses, and dozens of modest dwellings had been recorded in painstaking detail. Not a soul had found means to hide; all were compelled to answer questions truthfully and provide testimony of their deeds and possessions.

Gendry had witnessed with his own eyes as more than a dozen individuals were bound and forced into sealed carriages alongside whatever property had been confiscated from them.

When all had been concluded, Gendry had pressed "Task Completed" on his Light of Grace with his own hand, returning the two hundred and thirty-ninth grid to pristine white on the map. It had been his most gratifying moment since donning the gold cloak.

Then he and his squad had joined the Clearance Team as they proceeded to the next grid slated for inspection.

Lord Tyrion had displayed remarkable confidence. After each grid was thoroughly searched, he commanded all stationed squads to follow rather than leaving any behind to maintain watch. This practice gradually increased the manpower available to the Clearance Team.

Before long, those conducting the inspections far outnumbered those being inspected within any single grid, and their work proceeded with unprecedented efficiency.

Until the light sphere in the south gained red stripes of warning.

From the operation's commencement, Gendry had kept a watchful eye on the mission map displayed by the Light of Grace.

The morning hours had seen the most dramatic shifts in color across the city's grids. Some areas had flared red briefly, then settled to green, as nearby squads rushed to pursue and contain whatever disturbance had arisen. Their sole purpose: to eliminate those small patches of crimson from the map.

Gendry could well imagine the trials his comrades faced in such places. Dense crowds of the uncooperative, shifting constantly, some deliberately sowing discord, inciting others to riot against the crown's authority.

King's Landing was no pool of clear water, after all.

In the hours since, Gendry had endured countless glares and taunts, yet the city had finally stabilized into a reassuring blanket of green upon the map.

Thereafter, only occasional fluctuations had appeared wherever the Clearance Teams conducted their work, and these were swiftly resolved.

Until the light sphere marking Flea Bottom began to display red stripes. This marked the first Clearance Team to issue a warning signal.

Lord Tyrion had dispatched twenty squads in response, while other Clearance Teams diverted portions of their own strength to assist. Yet before most reinforcements could arrive, a large swath of Flea Bottom had erupted in crimson.

What chaos might be unfolding there? How dire had the situation become?

Gendry felt a knot form in his belly. His concern was not merely for the disorder they would soon confront, but for all those who dwelled within Flea Bottom.

He himself had grown up in those fetid streets and crooked alleys.

Though most memories of that place brought him little joy, there had been a few companions with whom he had shared what little they had, supporting one another through the worst times. The simple cookshops with their bowls of brown had sustained countless orphans and bastards who would otherwise have perished.

What fate now awaited Flea Bottom and those who called it home?

Gendry's steps did not falter as they ran in formation, but his heart churned like the sea before a storm.

"Halt!" Commander Jon's shout split the air.

"Each squad leader will position his men along the perimeter. No one is to approach within twenty paces. Any who defy this order will be slain without mercy!"

Gendry and his squad took up their assigned position, blocking a section of street. Behind them lay Bread Street, where countless bakeries stood with doors flung wide, the rich aroma of fresh-baked loaves hanging in the air like an invisible mist.

With mounting anxiety, Gendry scrutinized every change on the mission map.

Save for the western quarter where the Clearance Team still operated, most of Flea Bottom now appeared as a solid mass of crimson. The squads within had withdrawn to the border, forming a line with other units that had rushed to the scene, encircling the red zone in a ring of steel.

The Clearance Team in the west advanced methodically, reclaiming the eastern grid one square at a time.

Yet their pace was unnaturally swift. In just half an hour, four red grids had turned green, and dense formations of soldiers remained stationed in these newly secured areas.

Gendry could almost see the blood being spilled.

Soon after, the Clearance Team severed the red area from west to east, creating two separate zones of resistance—one to the south, one to the north—like two hunks of raw meat on a butcher's block.

The Clearance Team surged southward, and this red area was quickly submerged beneath a tide of gold cloaks.

For the next half hour, no movement registered on the map.

They must be clearing the battlefield and processing prisoners, Gendry thought grimly.

Then, as one, all squads in the south began to move, pressing northward with implacable purpose, forcing the last patch of red resistance against the northernmost boundary of Flea Bottom.

A growing cacophony of shouts and screams reached Gendry's ears. He looked up to see countless figures approaching from the south, their manner aggressive, as though prepared for desperate battle.

Commander Jon drew his longsword. "Hold steady," he commanded. "Remember the steel in your hands. Make ready."

Make ready for what? Gendry did not wish to contemplate the answer.

The mob had already surged forward—a sea of faces contorted with rage, brandishing daggers, axes, wooden clubs, stones, and whatever other weapons desperation had provided.

"Get out of Flea Bottom, you gelded gold-cloaked bastards!"

"Long live King Robert!"

"If you won't give us means to live, we'll take our chances in the grave!"

Commander Jon pressed a shard of black dragonglass to his lips, murmured a few words, then pointed it toward the advancing crowd.

A voice like thunder burst forth from the obsidian fragment. "By His Grace's decree, all dust shall be cleansed! Flea Bottom and its people shall be redeemed. Under divine grace, you need never again want for food or shelter. The path before you is bright, with even the Holy Star as sanctuary for your immortal souls. Why do you defy the will of the gods?"

The roar of the multitude faltered beneath this supernatural pronouncement.

"Fall back at once!" came another voice as Commander approached from the flank, also wielding a piece of dragonglass. "With your pitiful numbers, you would stand against divine will?"

Gendry looked on as the people of Flea Bottom continued their advance, streaming toward Rhaenys's Hill where he stood with his comrades.

"Silence, all of you! Retreat!" Commander Cien nocked an arrow to his longbow.

The crowd drew nearer, their clamor undiminished.

Among them, Gendry recognized several familiar faces—youths whose expressions had hardened into something feral or coldly calculating, no different from the cutthroats who had once preyed upon orphans like himself.

Thrum.

Gendry watched as a face disappeared behind the shaft of a long arrow, and thought he heard the sickening crack of a skull giving way.

"Quiet! Fall back!" Commander Cien's voice rose above the din.

Another arrow took flight, seeking the heart of the mob.