WebNovels

Chapter 30 - First Kill

sorry for not posting these two days; I couldn't access my Webnovel account. 

-----

Ser Dickon urged his horse forward until its hooves nearly crushed the knees of the bound gang members. His gaze was cold as steel when he spoke.

"Tell me who ambushed my men," he said, voice low and deliberate.

"Do that, and you might yet keep your lives."

One of the kneeling Stray Dogs raised his head, his lip split and blood dripping down his chin.

"M-mi… milord," he stammered.

"Ain't us what did that ambush, m'lord. Seven hells strike us down if we're lyin'. We was just as shocked as you."

Dickon studied him in silence, his face unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he said,

"Take them back to the barracks. If their tongues are stiff, we will loosen them sharply."

The trembling gang members were dragged to their feet and hauled into the iron-bound prisoner's carriage that the Gold Cloaks had brought for the purpose. Their muffled protests faded as the doors slammed shut.

By the time Maekar returned to the barracks, the city was already humming with rumors of the raid. He sat at his desk, cloak drawn about him, with the Lord Commander mirroring him on the opposite side.

Ser Criston Cole, having fulfilled his duty, had departed for the Red Keep to attend to other matters.

One by one, the other three Gold Cloak companies filtered back. Between them, the tally was four men dead and several more wounded.

Ser Dickon called it an acceptable price. Maekar, however, said nothing. 

Maekar's quill scratched steadily across the parchment, though his thoughts ran far sharper than the words he wrote.

'My Unsullied can now rally the other gangs to strike at more patrols. With me feeding them the Gold Cloaks' movements—patterns too random for any outsider to guess—none of this would have been possible. The more brothers of the Watch that fall, the deeper we must march into Flea Bottom. Step by step, I draw them in.'

His musings were broken by a knock at the chamber door. At the Lord Commander's word, it opened to admit a Gold Cloak. He wiped bloodstained hands with a rag, the corners of his mouth curled in a wolfish smile. He bowed to both Maekar and Ser Dickon.

"Well?" the Lord Commander asked.

"Did you get what we needed out of them?"

The man's smile faded, and he shook his head.

"They were telling the truth, Commander. They said they knew nothing. Looks like the ambush was just the work of some gang acting alone. Revenge, or some other horseshit."

Dickon exhaled through his nose, the sound heavy with disappointment. After a pause, he waved the matter aside.

"Very well. They're no use to us now. Send them to the Red Keep dungeons. They can rot there until the King's judgment comes."

The Gold Cloak bowed again and withdrew, leaving the chamber quiet save for the creak of chairs and the faint scratching of Maekar's quill.

A few days passed, and Maekar found himself rewarded for his supposed service. His swift hand in securing the Crown's permission—and even dragging along a Kingsguard and fifteen sworn guards, though they had been sent for his safety and not to aid the Watch—earned him a rare privilege.

The Lord Commander granted the young prince the authority to recruit smallfolk he deemed capable of one day becoming Gold Cloaks, after years of training.

The Watch had always replenished its ranks with grown boys, lads raised in the barracks and hardened by drills.

Now, Maekar saw the opportunity laid bare. Word was spread through the streets that the City Watch sought orphans and street boys, that they might be trained and, with luck, rise to don gold cloaks.

To the people, it was a chance for a better life. To the Watch, it was a show of strength. But to Maekar, it was something else entirely.

Through Grey, he sent word to his Unsullied. From the orphans under their hand, only the most loyal were chosen. They filed into the barracks with wide eyes and eager hearts, believing themselves blessed by fortune. Maekar met them with an impassive face, pretending he had never laid eyes on them before. He picked them as if at random, giving each a nod of approval.

Even the boys themselves believed they served only Grey, never realizing that their true master was standing brfore them.

Less than a week had passed before Flea Bottom bled Gold Cloaks again. Another patrol was found butchered in the alleys—seven men this time, their corpses stripped and left for the rats.

The outrage was immediate. Ser Dickon, who had thought his earlier raid would cow the slums into silence, was near to frenzy when the news reached him. He had paraded strength once, yet the gangs had dared strike again. Never in living memory had a Lord Commander suffered so many losses to common thieves in so short a span. The shame bit deep.

He wasted no time. By dusk, he had assembled as many men as in the last raid, invoking the Crown's leave to act with full force from last time.

This time, he swore, he would smash every den, every hole that called itself a gang's home, until the very name of Flea Bottom trembled at the sight of gold.

Amid the chaos of mustering men and drawing maps, Maekar took the chance. With calm resolve, he stepped forward and requested a command of his own—one company of Gold Cloaks to lead into the slums.

It was the perfect moment. Ser Dickon, driven by fury and humiliation, scarcely paused to weigh the danger. A prince eager to share his burden was not a liability but a gift.

Maekar led forty Gold Cloaks into the reeking alleys, stopping before a sagging two-story hovel where a minor gang made its den. Ser Dickon's fury had not blinded him entirely—he would not risk a prince against hardened foes—but still sent Maekar to make his mark.

The men formed a ring around the house, swords drawn, eyes on their young commander. Maekar turned in the saddle, his black cloak brushing the dirt.

"I plan to give no mercy to petty thieves," he said, voice sharp as steel.

"Do you plan to do the same?"

For a heartbeat, the Gold Cloaks hesitated, unsure if the boy's age meant softness. But when they saw his eyes, cold and unblinking, their doubts vanished. They raised their blades high and roared as one:

"No!"

Maekar nodded, and as Dickon had done before, ordered tar and pitch thrown against the walls. Flames licked up the wood, then roared to life, devouring the structure. Screams erupted within—men, women, and even children—as the fire drove them out.

"Kill them all!"

Maekar bellowed, drawing Dark Sister in a single motion. The Valyrian steel gleamed red in the firelight.

The Gold Cloaks surged forward, cutting down anything that ran. Some women and children shrieked past them, but every man who staggered from the blaze met a blade.

One youth rushed at Maekar, his face smeared with dirt, clutching a rusted dagger with shaking hands. He raised it high in a desperate strike.

Maekar swung. Dark Sister parted the boy's dagger in two like it was tin, then swept cleanly through flesh and bone. The youth's head toppled from his shoulders before his body even hit the ground.

For a moment, Maekar stared at the blade, marveling at how easily it cut—through metal, through skin, through meat and bone—like it was nothing.

The Gold Cloaks around him roared approval, their faith in the prince's ruthlessness sealed in blood.

More Chapters