Chapter 97 — The Establishment of Order
The air on Salted Meat Street always carried a stubborn, lingering scent of brine and rot.
On the second floor of the Old Fish Tavern, the lights were blazing tonight. The windows were sealed tightly with thick cloth.
Around a long wooden table sat more than a dozen men.
Their clothes were not exactly rags, but they could hardly be called respectable.
These were the small-time figures with names in Flea Bottom, the Fishmonger's Square, and even near Steel Street. Each of them controlled a few alleys and a handful of followers.
Usually they collected protection fees, watched over a few gambling stalls, arranged dockside labor jobs, or ran the business of selling brown soup.
The man seated at the head of the table looked somewhat out of place in such surroundings.
His chainmail had been polished to a shine, and over it he wore a gold-trimmed surcoat that strained a little too tightly around his body.
He was clearly trying to look imposing.
Unfortunately, the protruding belly and the thinning hair on his crown betrayed more exhaustion than authority.
Ser Balman Byrch, the newly appointed captain of the Flea Bottom patrol for the City Watch.
When he was younger, he had built quite a reputation in tourneys. For a time he had even been called one of the most handsome knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
But early success had made him arrogant.
Balman's swordsmanship had been matched only by his pride and sharp tongue. Because of that, this talented knight had long ago cut off his own path into the true circles of power.
Now, nearing fifty, he had thought his life would rot away quietly among his wife's relatives.
Yet unexpectedly, he had been handed the position of Flea Bottom patrol captain—a post rich with opportunities for profit.
It reignited his long-dormant ambition like an old rope soaked in oil suddenly catching flame.
---
The long table was piled with food.
Chunks of stewed meat.
Hard bread.
Charred sausages.
And cheap barley ale.
The men eagerly toasted Balman, showering him with flattery.
But Balman ignored them.
He focused entirely on a greasy roasted chicken leg, gnawing on it with complete dedication. The raised cups before him went unnoticed.
Grease ran down his thick fingers, but he paid it no mind.
It was as if he feared that if he didn't eat quickly, the food might vanish.
Finally, he tossed the stripped bone back onto the plate and let out a satisfied sigh.
Then he picked up an oily fork and casually tapped the iron cup before him.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound wasn't loud.
But the noisy tavern room fell silent instantly.
All eyes turned to his shiny, greasy face.
Balman lifted his eyelids and scanned the room.
"Didn't call you all here to drink," he said coldly.
"I'll be blunt."
"I want to discuss how we deal with that man—"
"Odin."
The moment the name was spoken, the reactions around the table varied.
Some men avoided his gaze.
Others exchanged glances, unsure what exactly this newly appointed captain was planning.
A gang leader nicknamed Splitjaw Togg finally gathered his courage.
He licked his dry lips and asked cautiously,
"Milord… do you mean you want to teach that outsider a lesson?"
"Hmph. A lesson?"
Balman snorted.
His fingers tapped irritably against the table.
"That bastard has no respect for rules!"
"I've been in King's Landing for years. Since I took this post in Flea Bottom, I haven't seen a single gold dragon!"
He jabbed his finger toward the men across the table.
"His people have waived the street maintenance fees and security payments everyone's supposed to pay!"
"Instead he's running free soup kitchens and charity clinics. Bah!"
The more he spoke, the angrier he became.
"That damn bastard thinks Flea Bottom is his personal backyard!"
"If the smallfolk eat his soup and get treated by his healers—"
"Do you think they'll still pay their dues like good little sheep?"
Balman paused to catch his breath.
A greedy gleam appeared in his small eyes.
"So we must unite and bring him down."
"Whoever gets the job done will have my support."
"From then on, whoever runs Flea Bottom publicly—no matter what business it is—if the money's right, the Gold Cloaks will look the other way."
---
The moment those words fell, Splitjaw Togg's eyes lit up.
"Milord, we've hated that brat for a long time already!"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice—though loud enough for everyone to hear.
"To tell you the truth, we've already started working on it."
"Our men mixed in with the soup lines and chopped up dead rats, tossing them into his cooking pots."
"Others spread rumors around Fishmonger's Square that kids who take medicine from the House of Order start crying at night and their eyes turn green."
"A few days ago we nearly killed one of his grain cart drivers—shame the bastard was clever enough to get away."
Encouraged by him, the others began speaking up as well.
They bragged about how they sabotaged Odin's operations, how they smeared his reputation.
As if victory were already within reach.
The atmosphere in the tavern grew lively again.
Splitjaw Togg raised his cup and moved closer to Balman, smiling ingratiatingly.
"With your support, milord—and the City Watch behind us—we're all one family now!"
"I, Togg, swear I'll serve you like a loyal dog—"
His words stopped abruptly.
Because Balman had pulled a dagger from his coat—
—and stabbed him in the chest.
Again.
And again.
And again.
More than ten times.
Warm blood sprayed across the table, splattering the food and the faces of those nearby.
The flattering smile was still frozen on Togg's face.
His eyes bulged with disbelief before his body collapsed onto the table.
Blood quickly spread across the dishes.
Dead silence filled the room.
Everyone stared in shock.
The man who had been conspiring with them seconds ago was now a corpse.
Balman calmly wiped the dagger on a napkin.
Then he smiled kindly at the others.
"Eat."
"Eat your food."
"What's with all the talking when you're supposed to be eating?"
The men assumed their new captain was simply unstable and unpredictable.
They forced awkward smiles and resumed eating.
One gang boss sitting in the corner trembled slightly. In panic, he grabbed a piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth, chewing desperately as if proving his obedience.
Balman glanced at him.
His eyebrow lifted.
"Oh?"
"You're actually eating?"
Before the words even finished leaving his mouth—
Balman raised his other hand from beneath the table.
In it was a light crossbow, already cocked.
He pulled the trigger.
Thwack.
The bolt slammed directly into the man's forehead.
Only then did the remaining men realize the truth.
This was a trap.
Shouts of terror and curses erupted.
Some tried to flip the table.
Others rushed toward the door.
But at that exact moment—
The tavern door burst open.
Dozens of heavily armed men stormed inside, instantly sealing every exit.
Their hands held gleaming axes and swords.
And on their clothing was the unmistakable Black Hand emblem.
At their head stood a short, thick-set man covered in black hair.
His nose was missing, giving his face an even more vicious appearance.
Rorge.
He grinned.
"Thank you for your generous assistance, Ser Balman."
"Lord Odin will remember your contribution.
Rorge didn't even glance at the trembling gang leaders.
He walked straight to the head of the table and gave Ser Balman a slight nod.
The arrogant and domineering Balman Byrch from moments earlier immediately shed all his ferocity. A friendly, almost ingratiating smile spread across his face.
"You're too kind," he said quickly. "It's my honor to serve Lord Odin."
"Please convey my most sincere greetings to him."
Clearly, the once-arrogant knight had learned, after years of hardship, how to read the winds.
Which was only natural.
Though Balman had once been a skilled swordsman, he had never been among the very best. Combined with the many enemies he made in his youth and his weak family backing, his prospects in the true arenas of power had long been cut off.
Later, lured by a generous dowry, his family had married him off—without even asking his opinion—to Falyse Stokeworth.
Life as a son-in-law was never easy.
Especially when Balman looked at his sharp-tongued, unattractive wife. The mere sight of her killed any spark of desire he might have had.
More than ten years of marriage—and they had not produced a single child.
Even Lollys, that half-witted girl, had managed to become pregnant… though under far darker circumstances.
So when Odin's connections allowed him to return to the City Watch, Balman had made up his mind.
He would cling to this opportunity with both hands.
Rorge knew nothing of these private thoughts.
He simply nodded in acknowledgment.
Then he turned and swept a cold gaze across the room—across the terrified faces of the men who now resembled lambs awaiting slaughter.
He took out a list and began carefully checking names one by one.
"Well then…"
He finally grinned, revealing a truly ugly smile.
"Shall we… continue dinner?"
The screams and wails returned to the tavern at once.
---
At the same time—
Fishmonger's Square.
Steel Street.
Flea Bottom.
The same scene unfolded in at least seven different places.
In a dockside warehouse, the corpse of an old fisherman lay beside sacks of grain he had tried to poison.
A black hand banner on a white field rested on his chest.
A silver coin lay atop it.
The message was clear:
Greed.
Beneath the old city walls, three surviving sparrow zealots were found hanging from a wooden beam inside a slum shack.
Each of them had a copper coin stuffed into their mouths—
a symbol of the lies they had used to deceive the people.
Near Steel Street, inside an abandoned smithy, two blacksmith apprentices lay dead beside the furnace.
They had secretly been forging weapons intended for an attack on the House of Order.
Their hands had been thrown into the furnace and burned together with the blades they had crafted.
---
In the darkest hour before dawn, Odin stood atop the highest level of the House of Order, gazing down at Flea Bottom sleeping beneath the moonlight.
Before long, Iggo and Rorge returned to report.
"Eighteen," the Dothraki warrior said, licking the corner of his mouth.
He looked thoroughly satisfied with the night's work.
"Two more than expected."
Odin nodded.
"Escaping rats always lead us to more rat holes. That's normal."
Rorge remained silent for a moment before speaking again.
"Miss Brienne… she fought."
"Cleanly."
"But I think she didn't enjoy it."
"No one enjoys it."
Odin looked out at the night sky, almost as if speaking to himself.
"But sometimes, so that most people can sit peacefully and eat breakfast…"
"…a few must do dirty work in the dark."
He turned and began heading downstairs.
Halfway down, he paused and gave an instruction.
"Light the fires at the soup kitchen."
"Dawn's coming. More people will come for food today than yesterday."
Rorge frowned in confusion.
"But… my lord, we've already succeeded. We don't need to keep feeding those commoners anymore…"
"Remember this, Rorge."
Odin didn't turn around.
He simply spoke quietly.
"Once you make a promise out loud…"
"…you must keep it."
"Only then will people trust you."
"Respect you."
"And eventually… serve you."
With that, Odin continued down the stairs.
---
The eastern sky slowly began to pale.
Flea Bottom gradually returned to silence.
But deep inside the City Watch dungeons, four captured zealots were taking turns confessing.
Each name they spoke meant another location would soon receive a small black banner.
Order—
was being established.
In the bloodiest way possible.