ARTHUR
The midday sun burned the muddy streets of Flea Bottom, turning dirty puddles into foul-smelling steam. However, the heat of the sun was nothing compared to the heat of anger radiating from the sea of humanity before Ser Arthur Dayne.
"Do not push! Line up! Straighten out! Queue!"
A food distribution officer, a fat man with an apron already stained with flour and sweat, shouted with a hoarse voice that was almost lost, swallowed by the roar of the mob.
Arthur stood tall beside the bread cart, his brilliant white armor now covered in a thin layer of dust. He did not draw his sword, Dawn, but his hand wrapped in a steel gauntlet rested on the pommel of the greatsword, a deadly silent warning. Behind him, a line of Gold Cloaks stood with spears lowered, forming a human wall to protect the bakers from the rush of the people they were trying to feed.
The sight before him was not something any knightly training had ever prepared him for.
These people... they looked very pitiful. Their clothes were merely roughly stitched rags, dirty with mud and street dust. Their faces were gaunt, cheekbones protruding sharply under pale or sunburnt skin. But the most terrifying thing was their eyes. Those eyes were red, sunken, and filled with a horrific mixture of pleading despair and suppressed rage, like dogs cornered and ready to bite anyone's hand.
They stood jostling, the smell of sweat and disease emanating from their bodies. They stared at the pile of wheat bread in the cart with wild hungry gazes, as if the bread were pure gold.
"Can I go first?! My child hasn't eaten since yesterday!"
The scream sliced through the air. A thin woman with matted hair pushed forward, elbowing an old man. In her arms, a toddler looking like a small skeleton screamed uncontrollably. The child's cry was high and shrill, a trumpet of suffering worsening the already cracked atmosphere.
"You think we have all eaten? Hah?! Bastard!" retorted the man beside her, pushing the woman back roughly. The man's eyes were wild. "My stomach twists just as painfully as your child's!"
"You are a grown man! You can hold it, all of you can! Let a mother and child go first!" shrieked the woman, tears making clean tracks on her dusty face.
"I have children too, fool! They are waiting in the hovel!" shouted another man from the back row, triggering a new wave of pushing.
"Screw your children! My child is dying here!"
Chaos exploded. Elbows met ribs. Feet stepped on feet. The sound of the baby crying got louder, drowned in the curses of adults. Arthur saw a young man trying to climb the back of the person in front of him. This situation was on a knife-edge; one more spark, and this would turn into a bloody riot where people would die trampled just for bread.
Arthur couldn't take it anymore.
"SILENCE!"
Arthur Dayne's voice exploded like thunder, cutting through the noise. He took one heavy step forward, his armor clanking loudly.
The crowd gasped. Silence fell suddenly, leaving only the sound of the baby's sobbing echoing.
Arthur stared at them, his dark purple eyes sweeping over those fearful faces with the cold gaze he used before a duel of life and death.
"YOU WILL NOT GET ANYTHING IF YOU DO NOT QUEUE!" shouted Arthur, his voice echoing off the walls of the slum buildings. "THIS BREAD IS HERE FOR YOU. BUT IF I SEE ONE PERSON AMONG YOU CUTTING IN LINE, PUSHING, OR HITTING EACH OTHER... YOU WILL NOT GET FOOD! I WILL CLOSE THIS CART AND THROW THE BREAD INTO THE RIVER!"
It was an empty threat, of course. Arthur would never throw away food. But they didn't know that.
Their bodies immediately shrank hearing that. Shoulders slumped. Pushing stopped. However, as fear subsided, Arthur saw another emotion appear in their eyes.
Hatred.
More anger emerged from them, this time not directed at each other, but directed at him. At the knight in pristine white armor who dared to threaten them. They looked at him as if he were a demon.
Arthur didn't care, let that anger be directed at him. He had armor to withstand it. As long as this could make them calmer and prevent them from killing each other, he didn't mind being the target of those venomous stares. That was his burden.
He signaled to the food distribution officer. "Continue. One by one."
The queue moved again, this time with order enforced by fear.
Arthur stood still, watching loaf after loaf change hands.
How long will this go on? Arthur wondered in his heart, immense fatigue creeping into his bones.
Every day, this crowd seemed to grow instead of shrink. New faces appeared every morning. They flooded the city like a floodwater.
The logistics were a nightmare. The bread they could bake now wasn't enough in terms of time to distribute. They had raw materials.
They needed to be milled. They needed to be baked. And that was where the fault lay.
If they distributed raw wheat, the people had no means to process it in their slum hovels. Distributing flour was also risky; they needed firewood and ovens. So, the Crown had to bake it. Also, processing it could make it into more volume.
Of course there were many people willing to help in baking the bread, widows working day and night, but the capacity of ovens in the city was limited. Building new soup kitchens needed to be thought about too, and for that they needed more gold coins, firewood, and time. Time that hungry stomachs did not have.
Arthur felt bitter irony in his mouth.
He was grateful Rhaegar's wife, Queen Cersei, was a Lannister. It was Casterly Rock's wealth funding this mass feeding operation. Tywin Lannister's gold never ran out, and her father was willing to fund all this for his daughter's popularity and his grandson's stability. If there were no Lannister gold, these riots would certainly have burned the Red Keep already.
But... the chaos of all this also stemmed from their family.
The Lannisters were soaring high. Their innovation, their efficiency, their "progress". Arthur knew from Small Council reports. The agricultural tools developed by Jaime and Kevan Lannister were the cause of this wave of displacement.
Arthur knew that those tools indeed accelerated farming and produced a food surplus that would save them in Winter. Strategically, it was brilliant. The problem was not the tools. The problem was this transition was too fast, too brutal.
They had to make other lords open their eyes. Not to just discard their people like rice husks. But how? Lords cared about profit, not humanity.
Arthur saw a little girl receive a piece of bread. The girl immediately bit into it ravenously, even before she turned away. Her face was relieved, but her eyes were still wild.
This bread was only enough for a day. Tomorrow, she would be hungry again. And what about her sick family in the refugee tent? She had to share. A piece of bread divided by four. That was not eating; that was prolonging suffering.
Arthur gripped his sword hilt tighter, until the leather of his glove creaked. He was the greatest knight of his time. He could kill other knights in single combat. But he could not slash hunger. Never would be able to.
And it was driving him mad.
...
The thick wooden door of the King's Solar closed behind Arthur with a heavy sound. The silence inside the room was so sudden it made Arthur's ears ring. No screams of pleading mothers, no cries of starving babies, no coarse curses of men pushing each other. There was only the sound of rustling paper and the soft hiss of the fire in the fireplace lit to drive away the summer humidity.
Arthur Dayne took off his white helm and placed it on a side table. He walked towards the chair in front of the King's desk, his footsteps feeling heavy, as if he were dragging iron chains on his ankles. Physically, he was unhurt. But mentally? He felt hollow. Drained dry. Like a wineskin whose contents had been spilled onto dry ground.
"Your Grace." He said. Rhaegar just stayed silent, gesturing for him to sit.
Arthur immediately slumped his body into the chair, his armor creaking in protest.
Across the desk, Rhaegar Targaryen lifted his face from a stack of documents. The King looked neat, calm, and a sharp contrast to the chaos Arthur had just left. However, Arthur could see dark circles under those purple eyes. Rhaegar was also fighting, only his battlefield was made of ink and paper.
Rhaegar stared at him for a moment, his silver brows raised slightly.
"That bad?" asked Rhaegar, his voice trying to sound light, but failing to hide worry. "You look like a worm just dried under the Dorne sun all day. Or perhaps worse."
Arthur snorted softly, wiping his face with his hand. He could feel the rough stubble that had grown for seven days on his chin and cheeks. He hadn't had time to shave, and now it felt itchy and uncomfortable.
"You will not know what is actually happening if you do not see it yourself, Your Grace," answered Arthur, his voice hoarse. He looked at Rhaegar, trying to channel the urgency he felt without sounding panicked. "There are many people there. Thousands."
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, the image of those faces haunting him again.
"It took hours just to bring them to order, make them line up in a straight line. Their eyes... their eyes were red from dust and anger. As if they were ready to burn anyone who looked at them, even me. My white cloak no longer means protection to them, it is merely a symbol that I eat my fill while they do not."
Rhaegar nodded slowly, his expression becoming serious. He put down his quill, joining his fingertips on the table.
"How long do you think they will be able to queue peacefully like that before exploding?" asked Rhaegar.
Arthur opened his eyes, staring at the painted ceiling.
"Honestly? I do not know," he admitted. "Today I can hold them back with a loud voice and threats. But tomorrow? Or the day after? Many of them begged, saying they have sick families in their hovels. Wives with fever, children too weak to walk."
Arthur clenched his fist on the armrest of the chair.
"But we cannot check them one by one. And surely there are some of them lying, using sympathy to get double rations. Therefore, we cannot give them more rations than those present. We have to say 'no' to crying faces. That... that is killing me slowly, Rhaegar. This could explode anytime. One spark, one rumor that bread ran out, and Flea Bottom will become a sea of fire."
Rhaegar was silent for a long time. He twisted the ring on his finger, a nervous habit he rarely showed. He then picked up a sheet of paper full of handwriting, Tywin Lannister's sharp handwriting.
"Tywin suggested opening more jobs," said Rhaegar finally. "Not temporary jobs like cleaning ditches, but permanent jobs. Something that produces goods that can be resold, turning the wheels of the economy."
Rhaegar pushed the paper towards Arthur, even though he knew Arthur was too tired to read it.
"But for this we need a lot of capital," continued Rhaegar. "Manufactories need buildings, tools, raw materials. We must discuss with other Lords to invest. We cannot leave everything to the Lannisters. If Tywin owns all the manufactories, he will own this kingdom without needing to sit on the throne."
"What are you thinking?" asked Arthur, massaging his temples.
Rhaegar stood up, walking towards the window overlooking the city.
"I agree with Tywin on this matter. We must imitate, and modify," said Rhaegar. "Looking at Lannisport, they have textile workshops that are quite developed. Weaving, spinning thread. The quality is almost the same as those in Myr. That would help a lot considering producing these products requires many stages and many hands. Women, young children, old people... they can work there. Don't have to be physically strong like dock porters."
Arthur nodded. That made sense. Cloth was always needed.
"Then there is glass," continued Rhaegar. "This one is a bit difficult, because the learning requires a long time and special skills. But worthy to try, right? The profit is also worth it. We can make plates, cups, windows. Luxury goods to sell to other lords."
Rhaegar turned. "And paper. Of course paper. Parchment from sheepskin has started to be abandoned because it is expensive. And with the schools already built a lot here, literate people have greatly increased. Bureaucracy needs paper. Merchants need paper. This generates unlimited demand."
Arthur listened, trying to imagine King's Landing filled with workshops and manufactories, not just taverns and brothels.
"That is..." Arthur sighed, his head slightly dizzy imagining it. "Quite a lot. And complicated."
Laughing softly, Rhaegar shook his head. The laugh sounded a bit forced, but enough to melt the tension in the room.
"Quite a lot, indeed. Very much. But we have no other choice but to move forward. However, Arthur, there is one thing for sure. Preparing and building all that takes time. We cannot conjure a manufactory overnight."
Arthur stared at his best friend, and for the first time today, the corner of his lips lifted forming a tired thin smile. He realized the irony of this situation.
"In that case," said Arthur, "the job that will be quite popular and most needed this time is builders, right? Masons, carpenters, porters."
"Yes," Rhaegar smiled, sitting back in his chair. "Before we can weave cloth or print paper, we must build walls and roofs to shelter those tools. Jaime has started with his mortar. We will need thousands of people to build the new industrial district."
Rhaegar sighed a long sigh, leaning back.
"That will not solve the hunger problem today, Arthur. But at least, it gives us an answer for tomorrow. Better to have a plan than nothing at all."
"Better to have hope," corrected Arthur softly. "People can hold hunger a little longer if they know there is hope."
"Hope... a beautiful word." Rhaegar whispered.
Yes, indeed, beautiful.
...
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