By the time they reached the four hundred and forty-ninth grid, the Fourth Purge Squad had rounded up between four and five thousand souls deemed "unregistered individuals."
Theon Greyjoy had not anticipated the magnitude of what they would find.
Beggars, orphans, the maimed, the aged, the simple-minded, the diseased, the willfully degenerate—these wretched specimens comprised the greater part of Flea Bottom's inhabitants, each lacking any legitimate means of sustenance.
How have they endured for so long? he wondered.
Theon could not fathom the full extent of their struggle, but he knew with certainty that their means of survival must be as dark as they were desperate—born of sin, compelled by sin, and skilled in the creation of further sin.
It truly was time to cleanse such a place. Theon began to comprehend the king's determination.
Yet such cleansing came with its own difficulties.
The denizens of Flea Bottom proved as slippery as eels freshly pulled from the sea, with precious few willing to comply with the squad's directives. To implement their plans, the Purge Squad had been forced to adopt more coercive measures.
His Grace had spoken plainly: these people could no longer be permitted to wallow in their degradation. A path forward must be forged, for the good of King's Landing and for their own futures. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms could no longer tolerate beggars or thieves within its walls.
Unfortunately, Theon doubted the objects of this benevolence shared such enlightened views.
Though swords had been drawn and threats made, should even one desperate soul lose all reason and incite a riot, the situation could rapidly become untenable.
Theon surveyed the increasingly chaotic scene, his expression growing more grave with each passing moment.
Too many required forcible detention. Each soldier must watch over more than a dozen captives, and though these unfortunates had been bound together with rope, their collective presence remained deeply unsettling.
"Jorah," Theon called, trying to mask his concern, "should we not summon reinforcements?"
The situation, though perilous, remained outwardly calm. Perhaps his fears were groundless, and matters were well in hand.
Theon was reluctant to acknowledge the precariousness of their position.
Jorah Mormont cast his gaze across the huddled masses and decisively activated an alert on his screen of divine grace. "What are you waiting for? Send for men at once. A few hundred will not suffice for what lies ahead."
A mob in full riot would care nothing for drawn steel. Should thousands rise up together, even a well-trained force could not hope to suppress them without significant losses.
"Once reinforcements arrive, these prisoners must be removed immediately," Jorah said, his weather-beaten face creased with concern as he regarded the thousands already detained.
"We cannot allow the remaining inhabitants to witness the fate of those we've captured. They will not see wisdom in our actions—only cause for mounting panic, until finally they lose all reason and with it, all fear of our swords."
Sound counsel, Theon thought, silently activating the alert function on his own light screen.
Regret gnawed at him now. He should have called for additional forces when they detained the first unregistered person; after all, he had known even then what resistance they might face.
Before Flea Bottom could be torn down and rebuilt, it would surely offer one final, desperate struggle.
Theon and the Fourth Purge Squad proceeded with caution, electing to hold their position at the four hundred and forty-ninth grid while awaiting reinforcements, hoping to ensure the mission's completion without further incident.
Among the unregistered individuals bound together and held under guard, the one called Black Dog stared outward with keen, watchful eyes.
Flea Bottom's continued existence over countless years could not be attributed solely to its harsh conditions or the steady influx of the city's poorest souls. Black Dog knew another critical factor: the gangs and the powerful figures who stood behind them, unseen but ever-present.
Today, the gold cloaks had created such tumult that their intentions could not be clearer—they meant to overturn Flea Bottom entirely. Anyone with sense could guess that those who depended on this warren for their livelihood would offer resistance.
The gangs would certainly take action. Black Dog clung to this hope like a drowning man to flotsam.
When that moment came, the gold cloaks would find themselves overwhelmed. If he could seize the chance to break free of his bonds and conceal himself where none might find him, he need only endure for a day or two. Surely the gold cloaks would not maintain their vigil indefinitely.
Though the gold cloaks' promises sounded fair enough, Black Dog had no interest in their so-called "construction team."
His understanding of the world might be limited, but he grasped one principle with perfect clarity: nothing of value came without cost, and hasty schemes rarely yielded good results.
He would rather continue his life in Flea Bottom, however squalid.
Black Dog sought out known gang members among the crowd, his gaze conveying encouragement and expectation. If only he could stand with them and resist their captors.
If he could but escape this day, that would suffice. It was his sole thought, repeating like a prayer.
For now, the gold cloaks held the advantage with their sharp steel, but they could not return day after day to instill fear. Flea Bottom would eventually revert to its natural state.
If he could only survive this day.
Whether influenced by Black Dog's hopeful stare or driven by his own desperation, someone finally spoke out.
"Sir gold cloak," called a voice from the crowd, "might I inquire as to your true purpose here? This may be but lowly Flea Bottom, yet it remains the only home any of us have known. Who among us would not feel fear at your arrival?"
Theon fixed the speaker with a baleful glare, his eyes promising violence.
"How dare you address me thus! I'll say it once more: by royal decree, we are here to purge Flea Bottom of rebels. All must comply without question. Do you seek to cause discord?"
Several soldiers raised their crossbows, training them on the man who had dared speak.
The man met Theon's gaze without flinching, seeming to believe the young commander would not act rashly. "From the moment of your arrival, my lord, you have demanded proof of ownership for these hovels and meager possessions, yet you appear to have forgotten where you stand. This is Flea Bottom. How many here could produce the documents or contracts you require?"
The crowd stirred restlessly. Soldiers ignited their swords with an eerie glow, sternly warning the masses back into submission.
The man continued, undaunted. "If I understand your meaning, are we to believe that none may continue to dwell in these shacks, dilapidated though they be, even those which have lacked a clear owner for hundreds of years?"
"What fate do you intend for these dwellings? Will they stand empty, or will you raze them entirely?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled throng.
What a venomous mind! Theon nearly gave the order for the man to be shot where he stood.
Jorah's hand closed around his arm. Theon turned, and Jorah shook his head slightly, his eyes counseling restraint.
The reinforcements had not yet arrived. Should blood be spilled and the scene descend into chaos...
Theon regarded the man with cold contempt. "And what would you propose instead? That Flea Bottom continue to fester like an open wound?"
Just delay until help arrives, he reminded himself.
"You live in such hardship, yet His Grace, in his mercy, offers you a brighter path. Only the greatest fool in all the realm would refuse such an opportunity!"
The soldiers conveyed their own disdain and bewilderment through looks and posture, appearing genuinely perplexed by the resistance they now faced.
The crowd's resolve began to waver.
Thus far, no blood had been shed. The septons and septas among the king's forces appeared genuine in their piety and gentle in their manner.
Perhaps this change truly boded well for them?
The outspoken man laughed harshly, gesturing toward those bound together on the ground. "Fine words cost nothing, my lord. When we all lie trussed like those poor souls, will not our fate rest entirely in your hands?"
"Why not release us now? Wait a few days. If your intentions are truly benevolent, we are not so dull-witted that we cannot recognize our own advantage."
Voices of assent grew louder. This proposal aligned perfectly with the desires of the majority.
Theon assessed their situation. Half his soldiers guarded the prisoners, dozens stood watch over the crowd, dozens more searched the surrounding area, and another one or two hundred secured the grid's perimeter.
Soon, several small teams arrived as reinforcement. Theon studied the light screen intently—dozens, perhaps hundreds of small teams now approached Flea Bottom. They would arrive within a quarter-hour.
"Halt! Stand fast!" Jorah's voice thundered suddenly.
Theon whipped his head around. Several figures were already fleeing toward the adjacent grid—one that had yet to be secured. The outspoken man had vanished, and more among the crowd grew visibly restless.
"Guard the prisoners! Secure the perimeter!" Theon ordered through clenched teeth.
In the end, it seemed, steel would speak when words failed.
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Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
I Am Raditz
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