The sun stood at its zenith.
The Fourth Clearance Team faced at last its greatest trial: Flea Bottom.
Here dwelled the most wretched souls in all of King's Landing, their homes a tangle of narrow alleys and rickety hovels thrown together with little thought for safety or sanity. This festering warren provided the only shelter many beggars, orphans, and the dispossessed would ever know.
It was also the city's most malignant growth—a tumor that had gone untreated for centuries.
For as long as men remembered, Flea Bottom had been a place where law held no sway, known throughout the realm for its chaos and the pervasive stench that gave even hardened warriors pause.
The gold cloaks on patrol routinely skirted its boundaries, content to let this slum and its discarded inhabitants rot in their own filth.
But today, even Flea Bottom fell within the scope of the royal purge.
The task before the Fourth Clearance Team was formidable indeed.
Standing at the edge of grid four hundred and forty-one, Theon Greyjoy's face twisted with undisguised revulsion.
"Flea Bottom is even more loathsome than I had imagined," he muttered, wrinkling his nose. "A pigsty would be cleaner by half."
Since donning the gold cloak, Theon had confined his patrols to the Red Keep and the more prosperous quarters of the city. This marked his first glimpse of Flea Bottom in all its squalid glory.
It was fouler than anything his mind could have conjured—a wasteland of refuse that assaulted the senses and offended the soul.
Theon found himself reluctant to set foot within its bounds.
No wonder His Grace intended to raze it and begin anew. Theon recalled the task the king had personally entrusted to him and felt the weight of its difficulty settle more heavily upon his shoulders.
Colonel Jorah Mormont of the Department of the Army stood beside him, his weathered face set in grim lines.
"Commander Theon," he said, his voice low and grave, "the situation here presents unique challenges. Not only is the terrain complex and densely populated, but the inhabitants themselves are disorderly and unschooled in civil obedience. I fear His Grace's commands will not be easily fulfilled."
From their interactions throughout the morning, Jorah had formed a measured assessment of Theon—neither overly positive nor unduly harsh. In essence, he judged him a young man eager to prove his worth, prideful and impetuous in the manner of youth.
Yet Jorah did not underestimate this inexperienced colleague.
Regardless of House Greyjoy's storied lineage, Theon's present position alone testified to his standing in the king's esteem.
The officers of the Department of the Army now bore ranks such as General, Colonel, Lieutenant Colonel, and Major, with the Kingsguard—reorganized from the King's Landing garrison—following a similar structure.
As commander of the Kingsguard, Theon oversaw a thousand men and stood as Jorah's equal in rank, if not experience.
Moreover, having just reached his majority, Theon's future prospects far outshone those of men twice his age. A young man to be reckoned with, beyond question.
Jorah found himself sighing inwardly. When this war concludes, perhaps it will be time to journey home for a spell and leave this stage to the young bloods—the next generation of the Seven Kingdoms.
Theon's expression gradually settled into something approaching composure. "I still require your support, Colonel Jorah. If we combine our efforts, no amount of filth or stubbornness in Flea Bottom can withstand His Grace's will. It must be cleansed, as he commands."
Jorah gazed at the warren of alleys before them. "What do we await, then? Let us begin."
Theon raised a hand, and at once the Fourth Clearance Team advanced into grid four hundred and forty-one.
The denizens within were already stirring with unease.
The morning's events had been most unusual. Many had been at rest when more than a score of soldiers burst upon them without warning, herding them into an open space like cattle and forbidding any movement, as though they were common criminals awaiting judgment.
In itself, such treatment was hardly noteworthy. Life in Flea Bottom meant occasional harassment by gold cloaks was as inevitable as the stench. Most had learned the futility of resistance.
Yet the soldiers' methods had begun to take a strange turn.
Every inhabitant knew well the countless hidden passages and bolt-holes that honeycombed the slum. Even those who had dwelled there for decades would hesitate to claim complete knowledge of its secrets. It seemed impossible that a mere score of newly arrived soldiers could flush out every person concealed within.
Those unfortunate enough to be dragged to the gathering place had initially found dark humor in their situation, even exchanging knowing glances with companions still hidden in the shadows.
But then they witnessed something that chilled their blood: the lead soldier consulted a small white sphere, glanced at it from time to time, and directed his men with uncanny precision. Those they captured were invariably the cleverest, the most adept at concealment.
The implications were terrifying.
Everyone understood what this meant. Flea Bottom was no longer the sanctuary it had always been. Should the gold cloaks ever truly set their minds to it, they could overturn the entire slum with just a few hundred men!
As more and more gathered in the open space, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. What did the gold cloaks intend?
None could say.
Occasionally, someone summoned the courage to ask directly, only to receive evasive answers or incomprehensible jargon.
Absent clear information, people began to formulate their own theories.
Some believed the gold cloaks sought a highborn fugitive hiding among them. Others feared for the few copper stars they had managed to squirrel away. Still others whispered of darker possibilities—that the gold cloaks meant to kill them all, down to the last child.
Massacre. The thought took root in their collective consciousness.
Why not? To outsiders, Flea Bottom represented nothing but stench, filth, and sin—a blight that should never have been permitted to exist. Without Flea Bottom, the highborn would likely applaud and carry on with their feasts and tourneys, unburdened by the knowledge of such squalor.
Consider the present circumstances: everyone gathered in one place, the gold cloaks unwilling to release even a single soul. What other purpose could this serve?
The rhythmic clatter of well-made armor announced the approach of a large contingent of soldiers.
Hundreds of wary eyes turned toward the sound, revealing a spectrum of emotions—numbness, anxiety, panic, disgust, and naked resentment.
The officer at their head wore black armor beneath a gold-edged cloak. He was startlingly young, his beard still patchy where it grew at all.
"By decree of His Grace," he announced in a voice that carried across the gathering, "I, Theon Greyjoy, commander of the Kingsguard, lead this team to cleanse Flea Bottom, to order its chaos, and to root out any rebels who may lurk within. All must cooperate or face the king's justice!"
At a wave of his hand, a group of men bearing crystal spheres stepped forward. Their garments were conspicuously clean, marking them as foreign to this place of perpetual grime.
One of the crystal orbs illuminated before a man known to his fellows as Black Dog. Then, to the astonishment of all, it spoke.
"Lemon Cakes," it intoned in a voice that seemed to emerge from nowhere, "declare what wealth you possess, what assets you can claim, by what means you acquired them, and who will vouch for their legitimate provenance."
Black Dog stared dumbly at the orb for several heartbeats before his mind returned to the silver stag he had received during the king's coronation.
To placate the official recording names that day, he had invented a new identity for himself on the spot: Lemon Cakes.
Before that day, Black Dog had never tasted such a delicacy, knowing it only by the tantalizing aroma that wafted from passing carts laden with goods for highborn tables.
He couldn't recall why the name had come to him in that moment of need.
But after receiving the silver stag, Black Dog had indulged himself fully. The memory of those cakes crumbling on his tongue, sweet beyond imagining, remained vivid even now.
My wealth and assets?
The fierce glint in Black Dog's eyes gradually dimmed, transforming into confusion tinged with a strange sadness. A bitter smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"None," he replied simply. "I have nothing."
The crystal ball pulsed with inner light. "Lemon Cakes, do you answer the royal summons to take up arms against the rebels in His Grace's name?"
Black Dog glanced around. Many of his neighbors faced similar orbs, their faces betraying a mixture of bewilderment and dread.
Take up a sword and sell my life for the king who sits so high above us all?
The memory of that silver stag returned, and with it the taste of those sweet cakes. Yet Black Dog valued his life above such fleeting pleasures.
He racked his brain, seeking a response that might satisfy without committing him to certain death.
"How could one such as me be worthy of the battlefield?" he asked, injecting a note of self-deprecation. "I would surely bring naught but hindrance. Best I remain where I belong."
The crystal sphere flashed once more. "Lemon Cakes, individual of no fixed identity or means, assigned to the engineering corps. Execute transfer immediately."
Engineering corps? Before Black Dog could grasp the meaning of these words, two shadows fell across him, followed by the iron grip of four strong hands.
As they forced him down, Black Dog twisted his head to glimpse the scene around him. Shining armor surrounded him in every direction, a wall of steel from which there could be no escape.
No one can flee this net, he thought with a mixture of bitter amusement and impotent rage. The trap had closed, and all of Flea Bottom was caught within its jaws.
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Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
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