Chapter 66 – Cleansing the Blood Cellar
Dawn.
Flea Bottom was perpetually shrouded in a gray, greasy haze. Overnight refuse had fermented, blending with the stench of excrement and urine into something eye-wateringly foul.
Under normal circumstances, no one in their right mind would visit this place at such an hour.
But today was different.
Just as the sky began to pale, a set of synchronized, thunderous footsteps tore through the slums, brutally shattering the fragile quiet of the district.
People were jolted awake. Dirty leather flaps were lifted, and heads poked cautiously out of crooked shack windows.
This was instinct for Flea Bottom's residents—an ingrained vigilance. Even in sleep, they never fully closed their eyes, lest they be butchered by an enemy in the night or end up stewed into someone else's dinner.
But what they saw today made their blood run cold.
Those who had assumed it was yet another gang skirmish froze in shock.
A unit of roughly fifty Gold Cloaks marched in tight formation, steps unified, momentum relentless. Their armor reflected the thin morning light with a cold, merciless sheen.
This was nothing like the usual lazy patrols—the kind that extorted a few copper coins before wandering off to drink.
This was different.
This was killing intent.
The more perceptive residents immediately sensed disaster.
"Seven hells…"
"They're here for the brown soup!"
A vendor went pale and bolted into his back room, panicking as he kicked over a massive cauldron that had been simmering all night.
The foul liquid splashed across the ground, exposing a jumble of bones—pig, sheep, and others that looked disturbingly not animal at all.
He grabbed a wooden club and smashed them frantically, trying to grind the evidence to pulp and bury it in the muck.
All across Flea Bottom, others doing the same kind of business followed suit. For a moment, the district rang with clanging and pounding—so loud it might've been mistaken for a forge street.
Yet to everyone's astonishment, the Gold Cloaks ignored all of it.
They advanced straight through the chaos, unbothered, heading deeper into Flea Bottom with unmistakable purpose.
Their destination was clear.
The Blood Cellar.
Those watching let out a cautious breath of relief. Losing a night's "work" hurt, but curiosity quickly took over, whispers spreading like rats.
"Thank the gods… not us."
"That direction—are they going after Ralf?"
"Seven above, who did he piss off to warrant this?"
"Didn't he have Swyft Rosby backing him? And some big shot behind the scenes…"
"Shut up. Don't say things you can't take back."
Countless eyes tracked the unit's advance. And among the more perceptive, a single thought settled in with chilling certainty—
Flea Bottom… was about to change.
"We're in position, Lord Odin."
Standing before the Blood Cellar's entrance, Humphrey Waters wore a grave expression. Gone was the obsequious smile he used around Addam; now he looked every bit the disciplined officer of the City Watch.
"Shall we begin the operation?"
Odin's gaze swept calmly over the door, then back to him.
"You are the commanding officer of this action, Captain Humphrey."
Seeing Humphrey behave like this in front of so many Gold Cloaks, Odin couldn't help but remind him calmly:
"I'm just an ordinary civilian with no official position. You don't need to seek my approval for every decision."
"Proceed according to your original operational plan."
"Yes, Lord Odin!"
Despite Odin's repeated insistence on their respective roles, Humphrey still straightened his back and replied at full volume.
The posture, the tone—anyone watching would have thought Odin was his direct superior.
"Move!"
Humphrey spun around and waved his arm. Several Gold Cloaks immediately hauled out a small battering ram and slammed it into the door.
The heavy wooden planks cracked open. Humphrey strode forward, lifted his boot, and kicked the door wide, leading the charge inside.
What greeted him, however, was… unexpected.
The interior was unusually clean. Tables and chairs were stacked neatly against the walls. The floor looked as though it had been hastily washed—still filthy, but conspicuously free of obvious trash.
A faint whiff of cheap incense drifted into his nose, failing to fully mask the lingering stench of blood and sweat.
The arena, normally deafening with noise, was eerily quiet.
Only a few servants stood off to the side, heads lowered, faces timid—almost meek.
Something was wrong.
Humphrey frowned.
Even at dawn, this place was far too quiet. There wasn't a single drunk, nor anyone who'd gambled through the night.
"My lords…"
A nervous man hurried forward. "You've come too early. We're not open for business yet—"
Smack!
Humphrey answered with a merciless slap.
He recognized the man—a low-ranking enforcer under Ralf, the kind who held no real authority.
"Idiot!"
Humphrey shot a quick glance at Odin. Seeing Odin's expression unchanged, he relaxed slightly and pointed straight at the man's nose, launching into a tirade.
"Do the fifty men behind me look like they're here to gamble? Are you blind, you useless dog?"
He scanned the room again, failing to spot his target, then drew his sword and leveled it at the man.
"Since when did you start calling the shots here? Where's Ralf?"
"What—letting the small fry stall while the boss hides upstairs?"
"Call Ralf out here!"
The ferocity of his tone sent the people inside the Blood Cellar trembling. The man staring down the blade nearly wet himself.
Then—
"Well, well… if it isn't Captain Humphrey."
A familiar voice rang out.
Everyone turned to see Ralf, leaning on his cane on the second-floor balcony, greeting them warmly as though he'd been expecting them all along.
His smile lingered on Humphrey before flicking briefly toward Odin, a trace of malice flashing in his eyes. Then he began limping downstairs.
"This early in the morning, bringing so many brothers to support my business?"
As he spoke, Ralf put on a show of easy familiarity, completely unfazed by the dozens of armed Gold Cloaks.
"Enough nonsense, Ralf!"
Humphrey sneered inwardly but kept a rigidly official expression.
"We've received reliable intelligence that this establishment is involved in illegal combat matches, slave trading, smuggling, murder, and rape. We are conducting a lawful search!"
"Criminal activity?"
Ralf spread his hands theatrically.
"Everyone in Flea Bottom knows I run a clean operation. Just poor lads playing dice, drinking a bit. Sometimes someone steps into the ring for fun—nothing more."
He swore it with righteous conviction, then sneered.
"And if I remember correctly, Captain, this place isn't even under your jurisdiction, is it?"
"Where's Captain Swyft Rosby? We're old friends. Why didn't he come?"
"Swyft is dead."
Humphrey's smile turned cold.
"Bribery. You should know that well, Ralf—most of the gold found in his house came from you, didn't it?"
Surprisingly, Ralf didn't look shocked in the slightest.
"Seven save us, that's slander!"
He pointed dramatically at Humphrey.
"I barely knew Captain Rosby! Giving him gold? Never happened!"
"Ha!" Humphrey shot back instantly. "Didn't you just say you were old friends? Now you barely knew him?"
Ralf licked his lips.
After a brief silence, he stepped aside and gestured grandly, the gesture equal parts hospitality and provocation.
"I'm always happy to cooperate with the City Watch."
"Search. Search all you like."
"If you find even a single illegal item, I'll go back to headquarters with you immediately."
"Holding cells aren't open to just anyone," Humphrey replied coolly. "Especially trash like you."
Though puzzled by Ralf's confidence, Humphrey remembered Odin was watching and barked the order anyway.
"Search thoroughly!"
At once, the Gold Cloaks spread out, methodical and professional—overturning crates, tapping walls, checking cellars, leaving no corner untouched.
Ralf, meanwhile, remained completely at ease. He even pulled a silver flask from his pocket and took a leisurely sip.
Then his gaze settled on Odin, who had been silently observing the entire time.
A sneer crept across Ralf's face.
"Kid, don't think clinging to the Lannisters lets you run wild on my turf."
"I've survived Flea Bottom for over a decade. I've seen everything. I crushed Rorge half to death—what makes you think a few Gold Cloaks can bring me down?"
"You've got friends. So do I."
He stepped closer, deliberately mimicking Odin's manner of speech, trying to sound imposing.
"Bringing men to raid my place today—that's bad. It breaks the rules. It insults me."
"One day, I'll make you pay."
So close they were nearly face to face.
Yet Odin showed no anger—only a faint, almost pitying smile.
That unnatural calm made Ralf uneasy.
"Lord Ralf," Odin said gently, his voice even, like an elder correcting a foolish youth.
"Never let personal emotions interfere with business."
"Captain Humphrey is merely carrying out his duty. And I, as a law-abiding, public-spirited citizen, am simply cooperating with the City Watch. That's perfectly reasonable, isn't it?"
He stepped forward as well, leaning in and lowering his voice.
"And besides…"
"How can you be so sure… that the big shot behind you won't sell you out when it really matters?"