Hobb had lived all his life in Flea Bottom.
He was used to the filth and grime of the place. Abandoned by his mother who was whore , he was only ten years old when he began spying for Mollander the Rat. Mollander was a legend among the people of Flea Bottom. To some, he was a benevolent mythical figure, but to others, he was evil incarnate, a demon from the Seven Hells.
To Hobb, he was a man who fed and gave him shelter.
Mollander taught him that they should take every opportunity to succeed and thrive, and that was what he was doing now—getting ahead.
He walked into the small space it was a cramped, dingy room with rats scurrying around. The smell of shit was prevalent, making the air almost unbreathable. Hobb opened the hidden door to their secret hideout, making sure it was wide open.
Through this opening, the prince's men would soon enter.
Many in the hideout would curse him for this betrayal, but he believed it was for the good of Flea Bottom, for its people, and ultimately for himself. He had seen the changes the prince's men were bringing to the outskirts of Flea Bottom: old buildings torn down, new ones built, filth cleaned, and people given good, honest jobs.
He wanted it to spread to all of Flea Bottom, but as long as Mollander was alive, it would not happen.He hoped with the prince's blessing to take over Mollander's position but to work for the prince for the good of Flea Bottom.
Sending a prayer to the seven he waited for the Prince's men to arrive.
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Large Figures moved through the cramped alleys of Flea Bottom. They were men clad in fearsome armor, their presence amplified by the darkness of the night. The shadows made them appear even larger and more menacing as they moved silently through the poorest part of the city. The people watched from their small shacks and worn buildings but kept quiet, too afraid to make a sound.
They all converged on a particularly decrepit building. The lead figure, wearing a helm shaped like a snarling beast, stepped forward and pushed open the rickety door. Inside, the small room was dimly lit by a single, flickering candle.
Hobb saw them enter and was instantly terrified. His heart raced, and he stuttered, "A-are ye the prince's men?"
"Yes," one of them replied, his voice deep.
Hobb gulped and nodded, trying to steady his shaking hands.
"Lead us through the tunnels," the armored man ordered.
"F-follow me," Hobb said, turning towards a narrow, hidden entrance to the tunnels.
Hobb led the twenty armored men through the narrow, winding tunnels beneath Flea Bottom. The air was damp and filled with the stench of rot and sewage. Rats scurried along the walls, and the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows that danced across the rough stone.
The group moved silently, the only sounds being the clinking of armor and the soft footfalls on the wet ground. Hobb's heart pounded in his chest as he guided them deeper into the labyrinth, his mind racing with thoughts on what was about to happen. Finally, they arrived at a large antechamber, dimly lit by a few scattered lanterns.
The leader, a towering figure with a scarred face partially visible through his helm, turned to Hobb. "Have you made sure the people you wanted alive are not here?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"Y-yes," Hobb replied shakily, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Good," the leader said, then turned to his men and nodded.
Hobb watched in horror as the men moved with lethal precision. They began slaughtering everyone in sight. The first to fall was Old Man Carris, a kind soul who had always shared his meager meals with Hobb. The blade slid across his throat in a swift motion, blood spurting as he collapsed to the ground.
Next was Marla, a woman in her thirties with a gentle smile. She tried to run, but a heavy axe cleaved into her back, splitting her spine with a sickening crunch. Her scream echoed briefly before she fell silent.
Jasper, a burly man known for his strength, charged at the intruders with a makeshift club. He was met with a sword through his gut, the weapon twisting as he was pushed off it and left to bleed out on the cold stone.
Petyr, a young man who had once been Hobb's friend, was pinned against the wall and stabbed repeatedly, his eyes wide with shock and betrayal as he recognized him standing by.
Maera, a woman who had taken care of many children in the hideout, including Hobb when he was younger, was cut down as she tried to shield the little ones. Her blood splattered across the faces of the children, who cried out in terror.
The violence continued, relentless and brutal. One by one, familiar faces fell. The men and women who had been like family to Hobb were slaughtered. Dor, the witty storyteller, was decapitated. Falia, the seamstress who had mended Hobb's clothes countless times, was gutted.
The children were spared but knocked unconscious, their small bodies crumpling to the floor as the men focused on the adults. Hobb stood frozen, tears streaming down his face, his heart breaking with each life taken.
'If only they had not been so loyal to Mollander' he thought, guilt gnawing at him.
As the last body fell, the antechamber was filled with the stench of death. The leader walked towards Hobb. "Your loyalty will be remembered," he said, his tone devoid of emotion.
Hobb could only nod, his mind numb from the horror he had just witnessed.
"Lead us to Mollander," the leader ordered.
Hobb nodded and began leading them further into the maze of tunnels to the chamber where Mollander resided. His heart pounded with each step, and guilt gnawed at his conscience but it was too late now.
As they approached the chamber, the sounds of whispers and hurried movements grew louder. The men and women inside had heard the sounds of death and had retreated,
They were trapped here as all the exits had been blocked by him.
"Stay here," the leader commanded.
Hobb nodded and watched as the men surged forward, their blades gleaming in the dim light. The chamber erupted into chaos as the slaughter resumed. Hobb saw familiar faces twisted in fear and pain as they fell one by one.
In the center of the room, Mollander stood defiantly near Cleaver the giant. Mollander's eyes blazed with fury as he pointed with his thin wiry hands and barked orders. "Kill them! Kill them all!"
Cleaver roared and charged at the intruders, swinging a massive club with deadly force. The first of the prince's men who approached was sent flying by the impact, crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Four men quickly surrounded the giant, coordinating their attacks. They dodged his powerful swings, striking at his legs and back to wear him down. Cleaver bellowed in pain and rage, his movements growing slower and more labored.
One of the prince's men saw an opening and lunged forward, swinging his axe with all his might. The blade cleaved through the air and struck Cleaver's head, splitting it open with a gruesome crack. Cleaver's body convulsed and then went still, collapsing to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Mollander did not raise a hand to fight but stood as if asking them to finish what they came here for. One of the prince's men stepped forward with a swift, merciless thrust, he drove the sword through Mollander's chest. Mollander's body slumped to the ground, his eyes wide open in a lifeless stare.
The old man was dead. It was over.
Hobb entered the blood-soaked chamber, surrounded by the bodies of those he had known for most of his life. He felt a crushing weight of guilt and sorrow, questioning whether he had done the right thing.
As the leader approached him, wiping blood from his blade, Hobb could only hope that his betrayal would lead to a better future for Flea Bottom. The cost had been high, and the path ahead was uncertain, but he had chosen to believe in the promise of change. Now, all he could do was wait and see if that belief would be vindicated.
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Three Goldcloaks entered the Iron Tankard, a well-known tavern in King's Landing. The tavern was dimly lit, with wooden beams and a low ceiling. The smell of stale ale and sweat filled the air. The tavern was a popular spot for merchants, and laborers, with a long bar running along one wall and several rough wooden tables and chairs scattered throughout.
Ser Garret, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, and his companions, Mark and Ralf, strolled in with the swagger of men who knew they were in charge. The Iron Tankard's patrons glanced up nervously, then quickly returned to their drinks and conversations, trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves.
They ignored the four members of the Fire Watch sitting in the corner and made their way to the bar.
"Beer," Garret barked at the tavern owner, a thin, nervous man named Tom.
Tom hurried to comply, his hands shaking as he poured the drinks. "Here you go, sirs," he said, placing the mugs on the bar.
Garret took a long draught, then slammed his mug down on the counter. "Not bad. Now, about our usual payment," he said, leaning in closer to Tom.
Tom's face paled. "I-I don't have much today, Ser Garret. Business has been slow."
Garret's eyes narrowed. "That's not my problem, Tom. You know the deal. Pay up, or things might get... difficult."
The other patrons stayed silent, accustomed to this regular occurrence. They knew better than to interfere.
Tom's hands trembled as he reached into his apron and pulled out a small bag of coins. "This is all I have," he said, holding it out.
Garret snatched the bag and weighed it in his hand. "This better be enough, Tom."
Suddenly, Garret felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the four members of the Fire Watch standing behind them, their expressions stern.
"You water boys mind your business," Garret growled, his hand drifting toward his sword.
One of the Fire Watch members, a tall man with a shaved head, stepped forward. "Leave, now," he said firmly.
Garret's face turned red with anger. "You don't tell me what to do," he snarled, drawing his sword. "Let's teach these water boys a lesson."
The Fire Watch members moved swiftly, disarming Garret and his companions with practiced ease. The patrons watched in stunned silence as the Goldcloaks were beaten soundly and thrown out of the tavern.
Outside, Garret, Mark, and Ralf could hear the cheers from the patrons inside the Iron Tankard.
"Those cunts," Garret growled.
"We need to teach those fuckers a lesson," Ralf said, his face twisted in anger.
Mark nodded in agreement.
"If they love the fire fuckers so much..." Garret trailed off, a sinister grin forming on his face as an idea took shape. "Come, I know what we have to do," Garret said, walking away with purpose.
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Hordik sat in the fire station in the eastern district of King's Landing. Each district was divided into sectors, and his battalion was assigned to sector 10. They sat in the station as always jesting and having fun, always on the ready to their job.
Suddenly, Roddy, his right hand man burst in, out of breath and panicked. "Fire at the Iron Tankard!" he said, panting.
His battalion sprang into action. They grabbed their equipment, filled the tank, and rushed out into the streets. The tank, a massive contraption on wheels, was filled with water and had hand pumps to douse the flames. Hordik and his team pushed it through the narrow alleys, the urgency of their mission clear.
When they arrived at the Iron Tankard, they were met with a horrifying sight. The tavern was engulfed in flames, thick smoke billowing into the night sky. The heat was intense, and the fire crackled loudly, threatening to consume everything.
"We have to go in now if we're going to save anyone!" Hordik shouted.
As they prepared to put out the fire and enter the building, Hordik heard the sound of men approaching in armor. He turned to see the Goldcloak from before and his companions, now accompanied by twenty more Goldcloaks, charging towards them.
"To arms!" Hordik screamed, drawing his sword.
The two groups clashed violently in the street. Swords clanged, and shouts of rage and pain filled the air. Hordik fought fiercely, parrying blows and striking back with all his strength. Around him, the chaotic scene unfolded. He saw his men, battling the Goldcloaks. Yet, despite their valiant efforts, the battalion was outnumbered and outmatched. One by one, his comrades fell, their cries of agony echoing in the night.
Hordik's heart pounded in his chest as he saw Orson, one of his best men, take a brutal blow to the chest. Orson collapsed, clutching at the wound, his eyes wide with pain. Nearby, young Jory was knocked to the ground, a Goldcloak standing over him, ready to deliver the final strike.
Above the din of battle, Hordik heard the desperate screams of those trapped inside the burning tavern. Men and women cried out for help, their voices filled with terror and anguish. The flames roared louder, consuming the building with a ferocity that matched the brutality of the fight outside.
Just as it seemed hopeless, the smallfolk who had gathered to watch the fight suddenly found their courage. They could no longer stand idly by while their protectors were slaughtered. A man from the crowd hurled a stone, striking a Goldcloak in the helmet. Another followed suit, and soon, a barrage of stones, pieces of wood, and anything else they could find was raining down on the Goldcloaks.
"Leave 'm alone!" a woman shouted, her voice filled with righteous anger. "Get outta 'ere!" another man bellowed.
The Goldcloaks, caught off guard by the sudden uprising, hesitated. He took advantage of the distraction, rallying his remaining men. With renewed vigor, they pressed their attack, pushing the Goldcloaks back.
As the Goldcloaks retreated, their curses mingled with the cheers of the smallfolk. He looked around at his surviving men, their faces covered in soot and blood but still resolute. The fire, however, continued to rage, spreading to the neighboring buildings.
His jaw tightened as he heard another desperate scream from within the tavern. He turned to his men, his voice steady but urgent. "Get reinforcements from the other sectors," he ordered. "We can't let this spread any further."
The battle was won, but the fire still raged, and there was much work to be done. As his men rushed to carry out his orders, Hordik took a deep breath, steeling himself for the fight to come.
The night was far from over.