The air on Salted Meat Street was always wrapped in a layer of lingering, salty, fishy stench.
The second floor of the "Old Fish" tavern was brightly lit tonight, and the windows were tightly covered with thick cloth.
A dozen people sat around a long wooden table; their clothes were not exactly tattered, but they certainly could not be called decent.
They were figures of some renown in Flea Bottom, Fishermans Square, and even near Iron Street, each controlling a few alleys to varying degrees.
Usually, they collected protection money, watched over gambling stalls, arranged odd jobs for dock workers, or ran the "brown broth" business.
The person sitting at the head of the table was somewhat out of place in this environment.
He wore polished chainmail with a slightly tight, gold-trimmed surcoat over it, trying hard to look majestic.
But his protruding belly and increasingly sparse hairline only revealed a sense of powerlessness.
Ser Balman Bych, the newly appointed captain of the City Watch for Flea Bottom.
In his youth, he had built a reputation at many tournaments, arguably one of the most handsome knights in The Seven Kingdoms.
But youthful success breeds arrogance; along with his swordsmanship, Balman was equally known for his conceit and loose tongue, which prematurely cut off his path to rising in the true circles of power.
Now, nearly fifty, he had expected his life to rot away in his wife's family, but he never expected to land the lucrative position of captain of Flea Bottom.
This caused his withered ambitions to sizzle and catch fire again, like an old, oil-soaked hemp rope.
At this moment, the long table was covered with all kinds of food: large chunks of stewed meat, hard bread, charred sausages, and cheap ale.
People were fawningly toasting Balman and flattering him, but Balman was just burying his head in a greasy roasted chicken leg, gnawing on it with focused intensity, ignoring the wine cups raised to him.
Grease ran down his short, thick fingers, but he did not care at all.
It was as if he would never get to eat again if he did not eat quickly.
Finally, he threw the gnawed-clean bone back onto the plate and let out a satisfied sigh.
Then he picked up the greasy fork beside him and tapped the iron wine cup in front of him nonchalantly.
Ding, ding, ding.
The sound was not loud, but it made the noisy second floor of the tavern instantly quiet, and all eyes were focused on his greasy, shiny face.
Balman lifted his eyelids, scanned the room, and said coldly: "I called you all here today not for drinking."
"Let's be direct. I want to discuss with you all how to deal with that... Vito Corleone!"
Hearing him say this name, the expressions of the people at the table varied.
Some subconsciously avoided his gaze, while others exchanged looks, seemingly unable to grasp what this newly appointed captain was up to.
At this moment, a gang leader called "Split-Jaw" Togg gathered his courage, licked his dry lips, and asked tentatively: "My lord, do you mean... you want to teach that outsider a lesson?"
"Hmph! A lesson?"
Balman snorted through his nose, his fingers tapping the table irritably: "That guy has no regard for rules at all!"
"I, Balman Bych, have been in King's Landing for so many years, and since arriving in Flea Bottom, I haven't even seen a single gold dragon!"
"His gang has exempted all the street maintenance fees and security cooperation fees that should be paid, and instead they're setting up free porridge stalls and volunteer clinics. Bah!"
He grew angrier as he spoke, his finger almost poking the nose of the person opposite him: "Does this damn bastard really think Flea Bottom is his own backyard?"
"After those wretches eat his porridge and receive his medical care, will they still honestly pay their dues?"
As he spoke, Balman took a breath, his small eyes shooting out a greedy light: "Therefore, we must unite to take him down and clear out this guy who doesn't understand the rules."
"Whoever can accomplish this, I will support them. From then on, whoever is the public face of Flea Bottom, regardless of any business, as long as the money is right, the Gold Cloaks will not interfere with anything!"
As soon as these words were spoken, "Split-Jaw" Togg's eyes lit up instantly, and he couldn't wait to pledge his loyalty directly: "My lord, actually we have long found that kid an eyesore!"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice, yet loud enough for everyone at the table to hear: "To tell you the truth, for these past few days, our people have been mixing into the porridge-receiving queue and secretly throwing chopped-up dead rats into his porridge pot!"
"There are also some spreading rumors over at Fishermans Square that children who take the medicine from the Place of Order will cry in the middle of the night and their eyes will turn green."
"A few days ago, we almost killed one of his grain transport drivers, but unfortunately, that guy was quick-witted."
With him taking the lead, others at the table were encouraged and followed suit, adding fuel to the fire by talking about how they caused trouble for Corleone and how they slandered his reputation, as if victory were already within reach.
The atmosphere in the tavern warmed up again, filled with a cheerful air.
"Split-Jaw" Togg even raised his glass and moved it in front of Balman, his face full of fawning smiles: "With your word, my lord, and the City Watch as our backing, from now on we are all one family!"
"I, Togg, cannot say much else, but to serve you as a beast of burden..."
His words came to an abrupt halt.
Because Balman pulled a sharp dagger from his bosom and stabbed his chest a dozen times in succession.
Warm blood splattered everywhere, splashing onto the food on the table and the faces of the people beside him.
Togg's fawning expression had not yet faded, his eyes wide open, filled with disbelief and shock, and then he slumped softly onto the table littered with plates and cups, his blood spreading rapidly.
A deathly silence.
Everyone was stunned, looking at their companion who had just been "conspiring" with them, now turned into a corpse.
"If you're eating, then eat. So much nonsense."
But Balman calmly wiped the dagger on a napkin and then smiled kindly at the people: "Eat!"
Seeing this, people only thought this new captain was moody, and they all chuckled and agreed.
A gang leader sitting in the corner was so frightened by this scene that he trembled, subconsciously grabbing a piece of meat in front of him and stuffing it into his mouth, as if that could prove his obedience and harmlessness.
But Balman glanced at him, and his eyebrows immediately raised: "Oh, you're really eating?"
Before he finished speaking, his other hand, which had been under the table, was raised, and in it was a cocked light crossbow.
The trigger was pulled, a short sound of breaking air.
With a "thud," a thick, short crossbow bolt nailed into the fat man's forehead.
Only then did the remaining people fully understand.
This fucking thing was a trap!
Screams of terror and curses erupted; some wanted to flip the table, some wanted to rush to the door.
But at that moment, the tavern door was violently kicked open from the outside.
Dozens of fully armed, burly men filed in, instantly controlling all exits.
In their hands were gleaming blades and axes, and their bodies were marked with the uniform Black Hand symbol.
The leader, short and stocky with black hair and a noseless face that looked particularly ferocious, was none other than Rorge.
"Thank you for your great help, Ser Balman. Lord Corleone will remember all of this."
Rorge didn't even look at those trembling gang leaders, walking straight to the head of the table and nodding slightly to Balman.
Balman Bych, who had just been arrogant and domineering, now quickly reined in all his ferocity, even putting on a fawning smile: "You are too kind. It is my honor to serve Lord Corleone."
"Please be sure to convey my most sincere greetings to Lord Corleone on my behalf."
Clearly, this knight, who had been arrogant and unrestrained in his youth, had now learned to assess the situation after being polished by time.
But this was normal; after all, even if his swordsmanship was good, it was not top-tier, and he had made too many enemies in his youth, and his family background was not strong.
Later, for the sake of a generous dowry, his family didn't even ask and directly "married" him off to Falyse Stokeworth.
Life as a matrilocal son-in-law was not easy, especially whenever Balman saw that mean, ugly wife, he couldn't muster the slightest desire.
Married for more than ten years, the two hadn't had a single child.
You know, even Lollys, that mentally challenged one, got pregnant, although it was by rape.
So, having finally returned to the City Watch through Corleone's connections, Balman was determined to hold on tight to this big thigh.
Rorge didn't know his little thoughts, just nodded in response.
Turning around, his cold gaze swept over the lambs waiting to be slaughtered in the room, looking at their faces, and taking out a list to check carefully one by one.
"Well..."
Finally, he grinned, revealing a hideous smile: "Shall we continue 'eating'?"
For a time, screams and wails resounded through the tavern once again.
Meanwhile.
Fishermans Square, Iron Street, Flea Bottom...
At least seven places were staging the same scene simultaneously.
At the dock warehouse, beside the corpse of an old fisherman who had tried to poison the transported grain, a flag with a black hand on a white background was placed on his chest.
On his chest was also placed the silver moon he had received, indicating — "Greed."
In a shack under the old city wall, three remaining Faith Protectors of the High Sparrow were hanged from the rafters, each with a copper coin stuffed in their mouth, representing the lies they had used to bewitch people.
In an abandoned blacksmith shop near Iron Street, two blacksmith apprentices who were secretly forging weapons to prepare for an attack on the Place of Order died by the furnace, their hands thrown into the furnace along with the swords to be burned.
In the darkest hour before dawn, Corleone stood at the very top of the Place of Order, watching Flea Bottom sleeping under the moonlight.
Before long, Iggo and Rorge returned to report.
"Eighteen."
The Dothraki Warrior licked the corner of his mouth, apparently having enjoyed killing very much today.
"Two more than expected."
Hearing this, Corleone nodded: "Escaped rats will lead us to more rat holes; this is normal."
And Rorge, who was on the side, was silent for a while before speaking: "Miss Brienne... she did it, very cleanly."
"But I seem to feel she doesn't like this."
"No one likes this."
Gazing at the night sky, Corleone seemed to be muttering to himself: "But sometimes, so that the majority can eat breakfast in peace, a few people must do the dirty work in the dark."
As he spoke, he turned and went downstairs, his figure pausing slightly, and he instructed: "Get the fire going for the porridge stall."
"It's almost dawn, and there will be more people coming for porridge today than yesterday."
Rorge asked in confusion: "Why, my lord, we have already succeeded, there is no need to continue supporting those commoners..."
"Remember, Rorge."
Corleone didn't look back, just said softly: "But after you have made a promise with your own mouth, you must fulfill it."
"Only then will people trust you, respect you, and then be used by you."
After finishing, Corleone turned and went downstairs.
The eastern horizon began to turn white, and Flea Bottom gradually returned to calm.
And in the dungeon of the City Watch further away, four captured Faith Protectors were taking turns confessing.
Every name they said would lead to another black flag in another place.
Order was being established in the bloodiest way possible.