Chapter 143 — The Black Hand Sends Its Regards
By the time Ser Addam Marbrand rode up to the outskirts of Flea Bottom, it was nearing midnight.
And yet, staring at the pitch-black slum before him—silent, motionless, utterly dead—he felt nothing but absurdity.
Where were the rioters?
Where were the torches?
He had ridden across the city gathering two thousand Gold Cloaks and another two hundred Lannister household guards, enough men to wage a proper war. They had surrounded Flea Bottom from every direction, prepared to carry out the Hand's order and crush the rebellion.
But where was the rebellion?
The entire district lay in complete silence.
It looked less like a riot zone and more like a corpse that had only just stopped breathing.
Only the wind howled through the narrow alleys, like mourners crying for the dead.
"My lord… something's wrong."
His lieutenant, Ser Osfryd, lowered his voice, one hand resting on his sword hilt as he frowned uneasily.
"It's too quiet."
No shit.
Addam shot him an irritated glance. Of course he knew something was wrong.
He had spent over a decade at war—hunting bandits in the Westerlands, fighting ironborn reavers, even cutting down men himself during the Battle of the Blackwater.
But he had never seen anything like this.
Gods damn it, I came here expecting a battle.
Yet the enemy was nowhere to be found.
He drew his sword instinctively, looking around the dark streets with growing unease before turning toward the commander of the advance blockade force.
"How are the barricades? Anyone try to break through?"
"No, my lord," answered a centurion named Harry. "Two hours ago they were still gathered in the streets with torches."
"Then suddenly… they dispersed. And not like a mob. Very orderly. Within half an hour, the streets were empty."
"An organized withdrawal…" Addam muttered.
Mobs did not retreat in formation. Once commoners panicked, they scattered like rats, trampling one another to death if necessary.
Which meant there was command structure inside Flea Bottom.
Worse—
There might even be eyes and ears for the enemy among his own troops.
Perhaps Lord Tywin had been right.
Perhaps Odin truly was alive… and still firmly in control.
"Reinforce the blockade."
After a moment's thought, Addam issued the order, his voice echoing sharply through the dead streets.
"Double the guards at every checkpoint. Sandbags and barricades at all exits. Archers on the rooftops. Every high point occupied."
"I want Flea Bottom sealed so tightly not even a rat can crawl out."
"Yes, my lord!"
The orders spread quickly.
Soldiers rushed to haul sandbags into place. Wooden barricades were reinforced. Crossbowmen climbed wobbling rooftops with heavy arbalests strapped to their backs.
Every weapon pointed toward Flea Bottom.
Yet inside—
Not a sound.
It felt like punching cotton.
Utterly suffocating.
Addam remembered Lord Tywin's final words before he left the Red Keep:
"Rebellion is like a plague. You cut out the infection the moment symptoms appear."
But now…
The symptoms had vanished on their own.
What in the seven hells was he supposed to do?
…
Meanwhile, inside the Hall of Order, Odin had just finished listening to Rorge's report.
"The Gold Cloak reinforcements have arrived."
"Everything matches the intelligence we received. Roughly two thousand Gold Cloaks and another two hundred Lannister guards. Addam Marbrand himself is leading them."
Odin nodded.
Spread across the table before him was a hand-drawn map of Flea Bottom, covered in charcoal markings—alleys, wells, hidden tunnels, possible defensive points.
With Insight Lv.3, details invisible to ordinary men stood out clearly to him.
"And our friends?" he asked calmly.
Rorge grinned, revealing crooked yellow teeth. Excitement burned wildly in his eyes.
"They all received the Black Hand's signal."
"Following the list and instructions you left behind… every traitor will be dealt with."
He laughed harshly.
"So you'd already prepared all this before leaving the city, ser. Everyone knows now…"
"The Black Hand has reached out again."
Odin smiled faintly.
During his months serving as Tywin's hand, he had done far more than simply clean up Flea Bottom and establish order.
Using the authority Tywin had granted him, he had systematically infiltrated the City Watch through the Black Hand.
He had never wasted time bribing high-ranking officers. Men like that were too expensive and too visible.
Instead, he targeted the ones who truly mattered.
Patrol captains.
Quartermasters.
Gate officers.
Clerks handling logistics.
Men with little pay, no future, and enormous practical influence.
If a man loved gambling, Old Moss would "coincidentally" meet him at the card table and offer generous interest-free loans.
If a soldier had sick family members, Odin or one of his doctors would personally treat them free of charge.
If a man simply needed coin, the Black Hand provided "legal dividends."
And for officers resentful of their superiors, Odin often helped quietly resolve disputes and smooth over careers.
Most importantly—
He never demanded betrayal.
Only friendship.
Only favors.
Only debts.
Until now.
On the surface, the Black Hand had already collapsed after his disappearance. But before leaving King's Landing, Odin had ordered every core member to lie low and disappear.
Even so, some of the people on his lists had broken under pressure or temptation after he was gone.
Some actively helped the Gold Cloaks suppress Flea Bottom.
Some betrayed civilians or lower-ranking Black Hand members they had once protected.
Others received the Black Hand's recall signal… and chose silence.
Or betrayal.
Those people were no longer friends.
If he had truly died at sea, perhaps the Black Hand would indeed have dissolved forever.
But now?
Everyone knew.
Odin had returned.
Alive.
Odin tapped the table lightly.
"The time's come."
He turned toward Rorge.
"Send the order. Proceed according to plan."
"Tonight, Ser Addam will learn whose hands truly control the ground beneath his feet."
Rorge grinned.
"Understood."
Then he vanished into the darkness beyond the Hall of Order.
After he left, Odin descended alone into a hidden cellar.
Hanging on the wall there was a gleaming suit of white armor.
Polished bright enough to shine beneath candlelight.
Once, it had belonged to Ser Meryn Trant.
Odin reached out, fingers brushing the cold steel.
"Soon," he murmured.
"Very soon."
Midnight arrived.
Squad captain "Gap-Tooth" Hark was an old veteran.
Two months ago, his son had fallen deathly ill with a lung fever. It was Odin himself who had saved the boy using costly medicines.
Hark had knelt in gratitude then, swearing eternal loyalty.
Yet after news spread that Odin had died at sea—and after the Gold Cloaks seized Flea Bottom—Hark became one of the first to declare his allegiance to the new order.
He ruthlessly suppressed anyone nostalgic for the old days.
He even personally reported three suspected Black Hand safehouses.
Tonight, Hark was in excellent spirits.
Blockading Flea Bottom was miserable work, but profitable.
In just a few days, he had already collected over twenty silver stags in "protection fees" from local shops.
Once this assignment ended, he planned to spend several glorious days in Silk Street with that red-haired whore he liked.
"Stay sharp!" he barked at the six soldiers manning the checkpoint.
"Keep your eyes open! Not even a fly gets through!"
"Yes, captain!"
Satisfied, Hark walked toward the wall nearby and loosened his trousers to relieve himself.
Halfway through, something cold suddenly pricked his neck.
Like a bee sting.
He tried to shout.
No sound came out.
Warm liquid spilled down his throat into his collar as his vision blurred.
Then he heard a familiar voice whisper beside his ear.
"Debt repaid, Hark."
In the darkness, he vaguely saw his own shadow cast upon the wall.
A man stood behind him, one arm wrapped around his neck almost affectionately—like an embrace.
Then the darkness swallowed everything.
Five minutes later, the soldiers finally came looking for him.
Their captain sat against the wall, head tilted sideways, eyes open…
But empty.
Dead.
Beside the corpse, written neatly in blood across the stone wall:
The Black Hand sends its regards.
The handwriting was elegant.
Almost refined.
The soldier who discovered him showed no surprise.
He merely chuckled softly, took a cold black hand-shaped badge from his pocket, and tossed it onto Hark's blood-soaked chest.
Then he began screaming.
Not long after, Addam Marbrand arrived at the scene.
He dismounted immediately, shoved through the gathered soldiers, and crouched beside the corpse.
His face darkened.
"Who found him?"
"It… it was me, my lord."
"Did you see the killer?"
"No, my lord. By the time I arrived, the captain was already dead."
"Hear anything?"
The soldier shook his head.
"Nothing, my lord. It was completely quiet."
Addam turned sharply toward the others.
"All six of you were stationed here. Your captain gets murdered twenty paces away, and none of you saw or heard anything?"
The soldiers exchanged glances.
Then answered together:
"No, my lord."
"We heard nothing."
"We thought the captain was just taking a piss…"
The identical answers made Addam narrow his eyes.
He studied each face carefully, searching for lies.
Nothing.
Yet none of it made sense.
Hark was no green recruit. He was a veteran.
Even ambushed, he should have managed a cry.
Unless—
The killer was someone he trusted.
Someone he would never guard against.
Or worse…
The killer was one of the six men standing before him.
Addam immediately crushed the thought.
No.
He could not think that way.
Any commander who began suspecting his own men had already lost the battle before it began.
"Double security," he ordered grimly.
"No one moves alone. Any suspicious person—kill on sight."
"Yes, my lord!"
Yet less than ten minutes later—
A second assassination report arrived.
This time from a temporary command post.
The location had once been the back courtyard of a cheap tavern, now converted into a barracks for thirty soldiers.
The officer in charge was someone named Erik, nicknamed Iron Anvil—a broad, rigid man famous for discipline and caution.
But very few knew his secret vice.
Gambling.
Weeks earlier, debt collectors had nearly flayed him alive before Odin's men had "accidentally" intervened and cleared his debts.
Ever since, Erik had lived in fear that he might someday become a pawn of the Black Hand.
So after Odin vanished, Erik threw himself into suppression efforts with fanatical zeal, desperate to prove his loyalty and cleanse himself of suspicion.
At midnight, he stood in the courtyard conducting roll call.
Then suddenly—
A soldier behind him stumbled while inspecting equipment and crashed forward onto Erik's back.
Erik felt something hard jab lightly into him.
It barely hurt.
He turned angrily—
Then froze.
Numbness spread instantly through his body.
He tried to shout, but only a choking rasp escaped his throat.
The soldiers watched as their centurion toppled forward stiffly onto the ground.
"Captain?!"
Several rushed over and flipped him over.
There was no obvious wound.
But his face had already turned purple-blue.
Dead.
His right fist remained clenched so tightly it took effort to pry open.
Inside his palm—
A black hand-shaped badge.
When Addam arrived again, his expression looked even uglier than before.
"Explain."
He stood beside Erik's corpse, voice icy.
"Thirty men in one courtyard. Your commander is assassinated in the center of all of you."
"How did the killer get in?"
Silence.
Long.
Suffocating silence.
Finally, a young officer spoke shakily.
"My lord… we truly didn't see anything."
"The captain was speaking, and then suddenly he collapsed."
"Suddenly collapsed?"
Addam pointed furiously at the corpse.
"You mean to tell me thirty armed men saw no one approach him?"
"No, my lord."
"Truly no one."
"I swear it."
Again.
Perfectly synchronized answers.
Addam examined every face carefully.
No obvious cracks.
Or perhaps—
Every face was a crack.
Impossible.
Unless the killer stood among them… and every man here had chosen silence.
"We saw nothing" really meant:
We saw it.
But we will not speak.
The realization sent ice crawling up Addam's spine.
He suddenly remembered something Odin had once joked to him months ago:
"Ser Addam… do you know how many people in King's Landing owe me favors?"
At the time, Addam had dismissed it as bragging.
Now?
He wasn't so sure anymore.
"Search them," he ordered hoarsely.
"Every man. Search everyone."
The searches lasted half an hour.
They found nothing.
Of course they found nothing.
If the killers truly had been among the soldiers, any evidence would have vanished long before the searches began.
When Ser Addam Marbrand left the courtyard, his steps felt strangely unsteady.
Because the entire situation was becoming absurd.
Just how many people had Odin bought?
A third of the City Watch?
Half?
Or…
More?
"My lord?"
Seeing the ugly look on Addam's face, his adjutant spoke carefully.
"Should we begin internal investigations? Check which soldiers had contact with the Black Hand?"
Addam turned and stared at him.
This adjutant had been personally assigned to him by Cersei Lannister herself, supposedly one of her trusted men.
But now—
Looking into the man's eyes, Addam suddenly felt a chill crawl down his spine.
What if he was one of them too?
What if tonight…
He shoved a knife into my throat?
"No."
Addam forced himself to calm down.
"We will not create greater suspicion. This is not the time for internal purges."
"We strengthen external defenses first."
As Addam strode away, Ser Osfryd's lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile.
His fingers brushed the Black Hand badge hidden inside his coat.
The seed of suspicion had already been planted.
And seeds thrived in darkness.
The assassinations continued throughout the entire night.
By dawn, eleven officers ranked squad captain or higher had been confirmed dead.
Three more were wounded or missing.
Not a single attack had witnesses.
Not a single killer had been captured.
At first light, the eastern sky finally began to pale.
Addam Marbrand stood at the foremost command post, staring at the deathly silent streets of Flea Bottom.
Shock.
Suspicion.
Then numbness.
He had not slept all night.
Bloodshot eyes burned beneath heavy lids. His temples throbbed painfully, and his mouth tasted dry and bitter.
Worse—
He was hungry.
Last night's supper had been a chunk of black bread hard enough to crack teeth and a thin bowl of bean soup.
The bread had been filled with bran and grit. Addam had chipped one of his molars chewing it, and the tooth still ached.
The soup had barely been warm.
The beans weren't fully cooked, sitting in his stomach now like wet stones.
"Why hasn't the army been fed?"
When his adjutant returned from the rear lines with another grim expression, even Addam struggled to keep his temper in check.
Osfryd sighed heavily.
"My lord… the quartermasters report complications."
"What complications?"
"The grain convoy from Rosby was apparently attacked by bandits along the Kingsroad. Supplies have been delayed."
"They say the wagons won't arrive until after sunrise."
"Bandits?"
Addam's voice rose instantly.
"Rosby is only a few leagues from King's Landing! What kind of fucking bandits attack military supply wagons this close to the capital?!"
Yet the adjutant merely lowered his head.
"The quartermaster insists that's what happened. The drivers and escorts all tell the same story."
Addam wanted to explode.
But he was too exhausted.
Too exhausted even for anger.
Or perhaps—
Part of him feared pushing too hard.
What if this man in front of him…
Gods damn it all.
He dropped heavily onto a crate, feeling more miserable than at any point in his entire career as Commander of the City Watch.
Just how many men in King's Landing owed Odin favors?
"Tell the troops to ration what they have left."
In the end, he could only sigh.
"Half rations this morning. Once the convoy arrives, we'll make up the difference."
"Yes, my lord."
After the adjutant departed, Addam turned once more toward Flea Bottom.
Still silent.
Still motionless.
It almost looked as though the uprising had ended.
Then—
The wind changed.
A faint morning breeze drifted out from Flea Bottom, slipping through the Gold Cloak blockade.
And with it came—
A smell.
Addam frowned.
A smell?
From Flea Bottom?
Impossible.
He shook his head, convinced exhaustion was making him hallucinate.
But instinctively, he inhaled again.
Then his eyes widened.
Bread.
Fresh bread.
How in the seven hells was that possible?
Wasn't Flea Bottom supposed to be starving?
Alarmed, Addam hurried up to a higher position and pulled out a Myrish lens.
What he saw made his stomach drop.
Smoke.
Cooking smoke.
Rising from deep within Flea Bottom.
Not from one or two homes.
From dozens.
Hundreds.
After an entire night under siege…
While the City Watch itself was going hungry…
The slums were cooking breakfast.
The scent drifting through the air felt more insulting than any riot.
"Where are they getting food?" Addam muttered in disbelief.
"We sealed every exit…"
Then he saw something even more shocking.
Near an alley less than a hundred yards from the Hall of Order, an old man slowly wandered into view.
In his hand—
A meat pie.