Chapter 144 — I'll Go Myself!
A golden crust wrapped around the meat filling, steaming hot as grease dripped down the old man's fingers.
From Addam's vantage point, the damned old fool stood leisurely at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the wall while eating bite after bite.
Every mouthful brought an expression of pure satisfaction to his face.
And as if by coincidence—
The old man seemed to know someone was watching him.
He lifted his head and glanced toward the distant Gold Cloaks, locking eyes directly with Addam Marbrand through the Myrish lens.
Then—
He grinned.
And took another enormous bite.
Addam's hand trembled violently.
A sharp spasm twisted through his stomach.
Not disgust.
Hunger.
He, Addam Marbrand—the Commander of the City Watch, heir to Ashemark, a knight of noble standing—was standing here starving…
While some ragged old bastard from Flea Bottom was openly eating a hot meat pie in front of him.
And taunting him with it.
That old bastard had absolutely no respect for authority.
"My lord!"
A soldier below suddenly shouted in alarm.
"Look over there!"
Addam followed the direction being pointed at.
On the rooftop of another alley, a woman sat calmly sipping steaming soup from a wooden bowl.
Beside her rested half a loaf of white bread.
Soft.
Fresh.
Pure white beneath the morning sun.
Far better than the brick-hard black bread Addam had eaten the night before.
Not far away, several children squatted near a doorway, each holding grilled sausages dripping with grease.
What in the seven hells…
What exactly was happening?
The poor of Flea Bottom were eating breakfast—
While the Gold Cloaks were hungry?
Was this still King's Landing?
"Send men to investigate!"
Barely resisting the urge to smash the Myrish lens against the wall, Addam roared down below:
"Find out which houses are cooking! Confiscate every grain of food they've got!"
The orders went out.
But the response was sluggish.
Because the soldiers were terrified of entering the alleys.
Last night's assassinations had convinced them that death itself lurked inside those dark, twisting passageways.
Now they were expected to march in and seize food from the locals?
Fuck that.
"My lord," an older veteran muttered boldly to the officer delivering orders, "the lads are exhausted and starving. Going in there now… something bad's gonna happen."
"That's an order!" the officer barked.
"Orders ain't worth dying for."
The veteran jerked his chin toward the deeper alleys.
"Look over there."
The officer glanced over.
Several men stood silently within the shadows, gripping sharpened wooden stakes, hammers, and iron bars.
They said nothing.
But their eyes spoke clearly enough.
Come inside.
Try it.
The officer immediately lost his nerve.
Looking back toward Addam standing above, he saw the commander's face had gone completely dark.
In the end, only two squads were forced to enter.
The soldiers advanced nervously through the alleys, knocking door to door.
"Open up! Open the damn door! We're searching for illegal grain supplies!"
A door creaked open.
An old man with gray hair stood inside.
The soldiers rushed in.
The house was empty.
Nothing.
"No grain?" one demanded.
"What grain?" the old man asked blankly. "We haven't eaten in two days."
"Bullshit! We smelled meat pies and bread from outside!"
"Oh, that was probably Stefan's family next door."
Then—
"BUUURP—!"
A massive belch smelling strongly of meat escaped his mouth.
The soldiers stared at him in fury.
For a moment, they genuinely wanted to stab the lying old bastard.
But remembering the murders from the previous night, none dared act recklessly.
Instead, they stormed angrily toward the neighboring house.
Locked.
No answer.
Peeking through the crack revealed dirty bowls and leftover crumbs on the table—
But nobody inside.
The next house.
Same story.
Same empty rooms.
After an entire hour of searching, the two squads returned empty-handed.
They had confiscated nothing.
Not even a single grain of wheat.
Only frustration.
"They're screwing with us," one soldier muttered bitterly.
"The food's definitely hidden underground or inside the Hall of Order. We could search until next year and still find nothing."
"So what now? We just keep starving?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
The soldier spat angrily onto the ground.
"You got the balls to fight the Black Hand?"
He rubbed his aching stomach and cursed under his breath.
"I'm so damn hungry right now I could eat an entire cow…"
As time passed, the grumbling only grew louder.
Fortunately, near midday, the long-delayed supply wagons finally arrived.
They were greeted by dozens of starving green-eyed stares.
"That's all?"
Addam Marbrand stared at the unloaded supplies with open disgust.
Several sacks of moldy black flour.
A few barrels of questionable salted meat.
And dozens of bundles of horse feed.
The logistics officer wiped sweat from his forehead nervously.
"My lord, the granary officials said…"
"They said food supplies are tight lately. Red Keep and the noble districts must be prioritized first. This is everything they could spare."
"Bullshit!"
Addam fought the urge to burn the entire shipment on the spot.
He glared at the man and asked slowly, word by word:
"How much did you take?"
The logistics officer instantly turned pale.
"My lord! I… I didn't…"
"How much?" Addam barked louder. "How much did Odin pay you to swap military rations for this garbage?"
"I swear, my lord, I didn't—"
Steel flashed.
Addam drew his sword and pressed the tip against the officer's throat.
"Tell me the truth," he said coldly. "Or I'll execute you right now for treason."
The officer collapsed to the floor, tears and snot running down his face.
"One hundred… one hundred gold dragons…"
"He said he'd give me another hundred afterward…"
"My lord, my daughter's sick. I needed money to hire a maester, I… I had no choice…"
Addam closed his eyes.
A deep helplessness seeped into his bones.
Odin's network was everywhere.
From ordinary soldiers…
to middle-ranking officers…
all the way into logistics.
That bastard was terrifyingly cunning. He never confronted Addam directly. He simply nudged the right pressure points, and the entire command structure collapsed on its own.
"Lock him up," Addam said tiredly as he sheathed his sword. "He'll be judged after this is over."
The officer was dragged away.
But the problem remained.
The soldiers were still starving, while smoke continued rising from Flea Bottom and the scent of cooked meat still drifted through the air.
Addam walked to the entrance of the command post and stared outside.
Some soldiers sat slumped against walls.
Others lay flat on the ground.
Their faces were exhausted, their eyes hollow.
Several stared toward Flea Bottom unconsciously swallowing saliva.
But Addam said nothing.
What could he say?
Don't be hungry?
Even he was starving.
His stomach hurt.
His head spun.
And for one terrifying moment, a thought crossed his mind—
If I took off this armor and walked into that alley… would Odin give me a meat pie too?
The instant the thought appeared, Addam violently shook his head and crushed it down.
He couldn't think like that.
He was Commander of the City Watch.
A man personally appointed by Tywin Lannister.
He carried the responsibility of maintaining order in King's Landing.
But right now, that responsibility felt heavier than a mountain.
Meanwhile, inside the Hall of Order, Odin was listening to the latest reports.
The air smelled of mildew, dust, and faint traces of food drifting from the small kitchen deeper inside, where Marg was preparing hot soup for several wounded Black Hand members.
"Eleven confirmed dead."
Rorge reported, his noseless face looking even more vicious beneath the candlelight.
"Three centurions and eight squad captains. Just like you ordered—we only targeted the middle-ranking officers who betrayed us. Ordinary soldiers weren't touched."
Odin nodded.
Spread across the table before him was a map of Flea Bottom.
Eleven red marks dotted the parchment, each one representing an assassination site.
The locations were perfectly distributed, covering every critical Gold Cloak position surrounding the district.
"How are they reacting?" Odin asked.
"Total chaos." Rorge grinned savagely. "Addam Marbrand's practically losing his mind."
"He sent people to search the district, but they found nothing. Now the Gold Cloaks suspect everyone around them is a traitor. Officers won't even go to the privy alone anymore. Takes four men just to piss."
"And the food?" Odin turned toward Marg.
Marg had just stepped out of the kitchen, flour still dusting her apron.
"We distributed everything according to plan. Three hundred and twenty of the poorest households received bread and meat soup."
"The children all had hot soup this morning."
She paused, her voice trembling slightly.
"One old woman started crying when she received her bread. She said her grandson hadn't eaten a proper meal in four or five days."
Odin fell silent for a moment before speaking calmly:
"Tell her that as long as we're here, her grandson will never go hungry again."
It wasn't an empty promise.
Before leaving Dragonstone, Odin had secretly purchased enormous grain reserves through House Ryger and hidden them in more than a dozen concealed locations throughout Flea Bottom.
Enough to feed tens of thousands for an entire month.
"We intercepted the Gold Cloaks' supplies too," Rorge added with a nasty chuckle.
"The logistics officer took the bribe and swapped their good grain for moldy flour and rotten meat. The soldiers outside are starving so badly their eyes are glowing green. They're practically drooling from the smell of our food."
The contrast was perfect.
The Gold Cloaks were gnawing on rock-hard bread while starving.
Meanwhile, the poor of Flea Bottom were eating steaming hot breakfasts.
That kind of visual and sensory contrast was more effective than any propaganda.
"It's time."
Odin rose to his feet and walked toward the wall.
Hanging there was the white armor of the Kingsguard, silver steel gleaming coldly beneath the sunlight.
"You're really going personally?" Rorge asked worriedly. "It's too dangerous. Red Keep is heavily guarded. If they discover you…"
"I have to go," Odin interrupted firmly.
"Tywin needs to understand that I'm not some rat hiding in the shadows afraid to show my face."
"I can walk into his castle…"
"…and walk right back out again."
"Only then will he seriously consider my proposal."
He paused briefly.
"And besides…"
"The Hand of the King needs to learn something."
"King's Landing does not belong solely to House Lannister."
"And the Small Council is not Tywin Lannister's private court."
At noon, inside the Red Keep—
blazing sunlight poured across the long council table.
The air hung heavy and motionless.
Dust floated lazily through the beams of light, as though time itself had thickened inside the chamber.
At the head of the table sat Tywin Lannister like an immovable mountain.
The realm's decision-makers filled the seats around him.
Only the king himself was absent.
"Regarding the trial procedures for Tyrion Lannister."
A calm voice broke the silence.
Speaking was Kevan Lannister, seated at Tywin's right hand.
"At present, all preparations required by law have been completed. The tribunal shall consist of the Hand of the King, Lord Mace Tyrell, and myself."
"The High Septon has agreed to conduct the proceedings at the Great Sept of Baelor. As for the evidence-"
"Evidence?"
A slightly theatrical voice interrupted him.
It belonged to Mace Tyrell, newly arrived in King's Landing.
The Lord of Highgarden wore a green silk coat embroidered with golden roses, trying hard to maintain the dignity of a great lord.
But the irritation between his brows and the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed his anxiety.
He had barely arrived in the capital before hearing news of the Redwyne fleet rebellion.
The pressure hanging over him felt like a sword poised above his neck.
Straightening his back, eager to display loyalty to the Hand, Mace declared loudly:
"Tyrion Lannister's crimes are already beyond doubt! There's no need for a trial at all!"
"But legal procedure must still be observed," Kevan replied evenly.
"If the tribunal finds him guilty, punishment will proceed according to the law. House Lannister has never sheltered criminals—"
But before Kevan could finish—
a voice thick with a Dornish accent arrogantly cut him off.
"If House Lannister never sheltered criminals, then that blood-soaked monster should've died over a decade ago!"
Everyone turned toward the doors in shock.
There stood Oberyn Martell.
A dangerous smile spread openly across his face.
His gaze swept over everyone in the chamber before he strode straight into the Small Council room.
Without asking permission, he grabbed an empty chair and dragged it loudly across the stone floor.
SCREEEEEECH—
The grating sound echoed through the solemn chamber with unbearable sharpness.
Finally, directly opposite Tywin, Oberyn slammed the chair down and sat heavily.
Leaning back.
Crossing his legs.
One boot resting right on the council table.
He lifted his chin and stared straight at Tywin with naked provocation.
"I'm not wrong, am I, Tywin Lannister?"
Despite the blatant disrespect, the Hand merely met Oberyn's gaze calmly.
After a brief pause, he spoke.
"Prince Oberyn Martell."
"The Small Council did not invite you to attend."
"Invite me?" Oberyn raised a brow dramatically, as if hearing the greatest joke in the world.
Oberyn leaned farther across the table, resting his elbows lazily upon it as he closed the distance between himself and Tywin Lannister.
The smile on his face became almost unbearably sincere.
"If you truly forgot," he said lightly, "then I can understand. Age catches up to everyone eventually. The body weakens. The mind follows soon after."
His eyes gleamed with naked mockery.
"And if sitting in the Hand's chair has become too exhausting for you…"
He spread his hands theatrically.
"I would be more than happy to take your place for a while."
A few people around the table stiffened immediately.
After all, this was no longer mere sarcasm.
This was open provocation.
"In Sunspear, I often assist my brother Prince Doran Martell with matters of governance," Oberyn continued casually.
"I assure you, the affairs of the realm are handled far more efficiently there than this rotting mess you call King's Landing."
The room fell silent.
Even the floating dust in the sunlight seemed to freeze.
At the far end of the chamber, Grand Maester Pycelle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his wrinkled fingers tightening around his chain.
Mace Tyrell looked visibly uneasy as his eyes darted between Oberyn and Tywin, clearly unsure whether he should pretend not to hear any of this.
Only Varys remained calm, his plump fingers folded neatly together, his expression carrying that same unreadable smile.
As for Kevan—
His face had already darkened completely.
"Prince Oberyn," Kevan said coldly, "this is the Small Council, not a tavern in Flea Bottom. Mind your conduct."
"Conduct?"
Oberyn laughed.
A sharp, mocking laugh.
"That's rich coming from Lannisters."
His gaze never once left Tywin.
"In Dorne, we at least remember our dead."
The atmosphere instantly turned heavy.
Everyone understood exactly what he meant.
Princess Elia Martell.
And her children.
The blood debt that had never been settled.
Tywin finally moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He folded his hands atop the table and looked directly at Oberyn, his green eyes calm as frozen lakes.
"You seem very emotional today, Prince Oberyn."
His voice was steady.
Controlled.
Dangerously controlled.
"But this council is discussing matters of state, not indulging old grudges."
"Old grudges?" Oberyn tilted his head slightly.
"To the dead, perhaps they are not so old."
Kevan immediately slammed a hand against the table.
"Enough!"
The sharp sound echoed through the chamber.
"The realm is unstable, King Joffrey Baratheon is dead, and enemies surround us on every side. If Prince Doran sent you here merely to provoke conflict, then perhaps your presence is no longer required."
Oberyn slowly turned his head toward Kevan.
For the first time, the smile faded slightly from his face.
"No longer required?"
He chuckled softly.
"How interesting."
"Your nephew invites Dorne to court. Your family begs for alliance and support during wartime."
"And now that the boy king is dead, suddenly we're no longer required?"
He leaned back again, drumming his fingers against the table.
"That sounds dangerously close to an insult."
Nobody answered.
Because everyone present knew one truth—
Dorne was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Especially when led by a man like Oberyn Martell.
Then—
Before the tension could escalate further—
The doors of the council chamber suddenly opened.
A guard hurried inside, breathing heavily.
"My lords!"
He knelt quickly.
"There is urgent news from Flea Bottom!"
At once, every gaze turned toward him.
Tywin's expression did not change.
But the room itself seemed to grow colder.
The guard swallowed nervously before continuing:
"The riots have stopped… but something strange is happening."
"Strange?" Tywin asked calmly.
"Yes, my lord."
The guard hesitated.
Then forced the words out.
"The people of Flea Bottom are cheering for someone."
"For whom?" Kevan demanded.
The guard lowered his head.
"…For Odin."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then—
Oberyn Martell smiled again.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"Well now," he murmured, eyes glittering with amusement.
"It seems King's Landing has found itself a second king."
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