Maekar fastened the clasps of his armor, his movements steady and deliberate. Across from him stood Ser Criston Cole, summoned to the Watch's camp by Otto Hightower's command, fifteen guards in tow to see to the prince's safety.
Otto had fought bitterly to keep Maekar from the raid, insisting it would be disastrous for the realm if anything befell him. But Maekar had refused outright, declaring that it would shame both him and the realm if a prince of royal blood—and a dragonrider besides—hid within the Red Keep while others went to battle.
In the end, Otto had yielded, though he kept the decision from Alicent. Had she known, she would have barred every gate of the keep before letting her son set foot in Flea Bottom.
Criston watched Maekar closely now. The boy was growing into a man faster than seemed natural—already near the height of a grown soldier, broad of shoulder, with the bearing of someone hardened by more than training bouts. At a glance, he might pass for a short but seasoned knight.
"My prince," Criston said quietly, his brow furrowed,
"are you certain of this? This is no practice yard at the Red Keep. What waits in those alleys—"
"Just do your duty, ser Cole."
Maekar cut in, his tone sharp as steel.
The contingent of Gold Cloaks set out in strict formation, rows of horses clattering over cobbled streets. Maekar rode in the middle, flanked on either side by Ser Criston Cole and Lord Dickon. Around him, fifteen guards formed a protective ring, their eyes flicking at every shadow.
Merchants and smallfolk alike melted away at the sight of the column, pressed back against stalls and walls as the sea of gold and steel passed by. The sheer size of the host—hundreds of armed men, banners snapping, a Kingsguard riding among them—stirred old whispers. It reminded the people of another night, years ago, when the Watch had ridden in force and left Flea Bottom soaked in blood.
Before long they reached the reeking mouth of Flea Bottom itself. The captains, already briefed, split their men into three companies of fifty, each detachment peeling away into the twisting alleys to strike at their assigned marks. Lord Dickon pressed on down the central street with sixty-five men at his back, Maekar and Criston keeping pace beside him.
The ground seemed to tremble as the horses trotted over filth-slick stones, mud, and offal splashing beneath hooves. The stink was suffocating, the cries of frightened children and slamming shutters following them deeper.
At last, they came to what passed for a tavern—half-rotted boards for walls, its doorway little more than a torn and greasy cloth hanging in place of a door.
Lord Dickon reined in, studying the sagging structure with hard eyes.
"This," he said grimly,
"It is the den of the Stray Dogs. Fifty cutthroats and whoresons at most—petty thieves, debt-mongers, and worse. Filth, all of them."
Criston Cole shifted in his saddle, eyes scanning the crooked alleys and shuttered windows.
"Entering will bleed us, Lord Commander," he said evenly.
"They'll have barricades, blades in the dark. They won't face us in the open."
For the first time that day, Lord Dickon's hard-set face cracked into a smile—one of bloodlust more than mirth.
"Then we'll drag them into the open."
He raised a hand, and a score of Gold Cloaks swung down from their horses. From the backs of some horses behind, barrels of pitch and tar were rolled forward. The men set to work quickly, smearing the foul stuff thick across the warped boards of the tavern's walls, coating every side but the entrance. The stench of resin and smoke filled the air, drawing mutters from the gathered Watch as the ring tightened. Soon, the Stray Dogs' den was completely encircled by steel and fire.
Lord Dickon stepped forward, his voice booming across the narrow street.
"Stray Dogs!" he roared.
"This is the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Come out now and yield—or face the consequence."
A long silence followed. No shuffling, no movement, only the creak of wood. Just as men began to exchange wary glances, a voice came from within—smug, mocking, dripping with scorn.
"If ya want something…" the unseen man jeered, "come an' get it, Lord of fuck-all."
The Lord Commander's smile stretched wider, wolfish.
"Light it."
One of the Gold Cloaks stepped forward, torch in hand, and hurled it against the pitch-soaked walls. The tar caught in an instant, flames racing like hungry serpents along the warped wood until the whole den blazed. Heat shimmered across the street, and the air filled with the stink of burning resin and smoke.
Steel rasped as dozens of swords slid free in one sound, the Gold Cloaks tightening their ring around the tavern.
It didn't take long.
Shrill screams split the air as serving girls and tavern wenches burst out through the smoke, some with their dresses aflame and hair singed, their shrieks piercing, and right behind them stumbled the Stray Dogs, a rabble of thieves and cutthroats clutching daggers, a few lucky ones with short swords.
The Gold Cloaks showed no hesitation. Formation locked, they advanced, their blades cutting down whoever pressed too close—woman or man, it mattered not. Panic turned the Stray Dogs' human shields into corpses within breaths.
What followed could scarcely be called a fight. The ragged smallfolk, barefoot and half-armed, slammed headlong into a wall of armored, disciplined soldiers who outnumbered them two to one.
Steel clanged, bones cracked, and blood spattered the dirt, but the outcome was never in doubt.
From the center of the formation, Maekar watched silently, his hand resting idly on his sword Dark Sister's hilt. His guards stood ready around him, but neither he nor they needed to so much as lift a blade. The first rank of Gold Cloaks alone crushed the gang in moments.
The Gold Cloaks, caught in the frenzy of their own bloodlust, seemed to forget the Lord Commander's orders entirely. They cut down most of the gang without hesitation, reveling in the ease of their slaughter. Only at the last second did Ser Dickon's voice ring out, sharp and commanding, halting the carnage. By then, only six of the Stray Dogs still drew breath.
The survivors were seized roughly, with ropes thrown over their wrists and necks. Some were struck and shoved to their knees, the force of each hit leaving bruises and bloodied skin.
At last, the six ragged men knelt before Maekar, trembling, along with Ser Dickon, standing beside him, surveying the scene with grim satisfaction.
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