Thomas stood at the doorway of the tavern, his eyes scanning the streets as the early morning mist clung stubbornly to the cobblestones. Flea Bottom never slept, not truly. The alleys were always alive with the scuttling of rats, the low murmurs of those too desperate to rest, and the occasional cough that cut through the air like a dull blade. The sickness had grown worse overnight. He'd seen it in the faces of those who came in—sunken eyes, pale skin slick with fever, and that rattling, wet cough that sent shivers up his spine.
The tavern, once lively with laughter and song, now felt haunted, the usual banter replaced by wary glances and hushed conversations. Thomas knew he needed to act, to find the source of this sickness before it swallowed his business whole. He grabbed a lantern, the flickering light dancing against the walls, and set off into the narrow maze of Flea Bottom, his footsteps echoing softly in the stillness.
The air was thick with the stench of rotting refuse and filth, every corner of the alleys heavy with the grime that never seemed to wash away. He checked the food stores first, his hands moving methodically as he inspected every sack of grain, every barrel of ale, every crate of vegetables. The produce was clean, the meats fresh; nothing seemed out of place. But the sickness persisted, crawling into every crevice of the district, and Thomas felt the prickling unease deepen in his gut.
He continued his search, weaving through the streets, his lantern casting long, eerie shadows that shifted with each step. The well near the tavern loomed ahead, a squat, stone structure surrounded by weeds and garbage, its ancient, moss-covered bricks crumbling at the edges. It was a communal source, the lifeblood of the neighborhood, where people gathered daily to fill their jugs and pails, the water usually murky but tolerable in a place where clean was a relative term.
Thomas peered over the edge, the faint ripple of water barely visible in the dim light. He lowered the lantern, squinting as the light danced across the surface, revealing something bloated and grotesque just below. A rancid, putrid smell wafted up, sharp and foul, hitting him like a punch to the gut. The carcass of a dead animal—bloated, fur matted with rot, its limbs twisted and rigid—floated just beneath the water, its decaying form turning the once-usable water into a breeding ground for disease.
Thomas's lips curled in disgust, his throat tightening as he pulled back, the smell clinging to his senses. This was it. The source of the sickness. The well had been poisoned by death, and all who drank from it had taken the foulness into their own bodies, unsuspecting and desperate for something to quench their thirst.
Thomas didn't waste a moment, his voice cutting through the stillness as he called out to those nearby. "It's the well!" he shouted, his voice carrying through the alley, urgent and raw. "The water's foul! There's a carcass in there—you're all drinking from death!"
People emerged slowly, drawn by the commotion, their faces twisted in a mix of horror and realization. A woman clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock as she pulled her son close, her breath hitching. The whispers spread like wildfire, each person repeating what they'd heard, passing it along the street like a dirty secret finally unearthed. Thomas pointed to the well, the dark water rippling faintly, the bloated carcass bobbing just beneath the surface.
"They've been blaming the tavern," one man muttered, his voice thick with guilt. "All this time… and it was the water."
Another stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow, his face drawn and pale. "We should've known… should've checked. This place is poison."
The City Watch arrived soon after, their expressions grim as they leaned over the well, their lanterns illuminating the bloated mass. One of the guards, the same broad-shouldered man who'd warned Thomas the night before, turned to him with a begrudging nod of acknowledgment. "You found it, then," he said, his tone edged with an uneasy respect. "This mess isn't on you."
The guards worked quickly, their hands pulling ropes and hooks, struggling to fish out the carcass, the putrid stench growing worse with every tug. The crowd watched, a mix of relief and revulsion rippling through them as the dead animal was dragged from the water, its lifeless form slapping wetly against the stone. The well was closed off, boards nailed across the top, sealing the tainted water away from those desperate enough to risk it.
Thomas stood back, his arms crossed, watching as the guards worked. The crowd began to disperse, some offering mumbled apologies, others too ashamed to meet his gaze. The accusations from the night before felt hollow now, the realization of how quickly blame could turn on the innocent settling like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. He had seen this place for what it was—fickle, desperate, always looking for someone to pin its troubles on.
Marla sidled up beside him, her face still drawn but softened with relief. "They're talking about you, you know," she said quietly, her voice laced with a mix of pride and weariness. "They're saying you saved them."
Thomas shook his head, his gaze fixed on the now-sealed well. "Flea Bottom will chew you up the moment you turn your back," he muttered, his voice low and edged with a bitterness he couldn't quite hide. "It's never safe—not for us, not for anyone."
He thought of Lyra, her voice fragile but bright, her songs drawing in the crowd that had turned on him so quickly. Of Marla, tough but vulnerable, her past always just a step behind. And of Sera, whose dark cravings mirrored his own but carried their own dangers. They were his, bound to him by choices and circumstances, and as long as they stayed in Flea Bottom, they were at risk.
Thomas stared at the tavern, its doors open wide, the faint hum of life still audible within. The place was thriving, but it was a fragile thing, teetering on the edge of ruin at every turn. He couldn't keep them here, exposed to every petty crime, every poisoned well, every whisper of blame. The city was a beast, and Flea Bottom was its gaping maw—hungry, unrelenting, always waiting for the next misstep.
Thomas made up his mind, his thoughts settling with a cold, hard certainty. He would make this tavern the best, pull every coin he could from the grimy pockets of those who flocked here for a moment's reprieve. But it wouldn't be forever. He'd take the coin, the reputation, and he'd use it to claw his way out of Flea Bottom's grasp. The heart of King's Landing—where the walls were stronger, the streets a little safer—was where he needed to be. Not clean, not free from danger, but a place where the game was different, where the stakes were higher but clearer.
He glanced back at Marla, her face lined with the weariness of a woman who'd seen too much. "We'll get out of here," he said, his voice firm but low. "Out of this place. It's not safe, not for us."
Marla nodded slowly, understanding settling in her eyes. "And where will we go?"
Thomas stared past the rooftops, toward the glittering sprawl of King's Landing, the towers and keeps that rose like sharp teeth against the horizon. "Somewhere better," he said, his voice resolute. "Somewhere where the walls aren't made of dirt and desperation."
The plan was simple: earn enough, move out, and build something stronger. The fickle nature of Flea Bottom had shown him the truth—this place wasn't meant for people who wanted to build a future. It was a place of survival, of scraping by, of finding the bare minimum and clinging to it with dirty, desperate hands. But Thomas wasn't here to survive. He was here to take. And once he'd taken enough, he'd leave this place behind, with nothing but the memories of the battles fought and the people who'd stood by him, no matter how broken they were.
Thomas walked back to the tavern, the noise of the street fading behind him. The door swung shut, the noise of the world outside replaced by the quiet murmur of those who still trusted him, still came for his food, still believed in the small piece of solace his place offered. The sickness had been warded off, but the lesson remained: nothing was permanent in a place like Flea Bottom. And if you wanted something better, you had to take it.
SFW pictures for free on patreon and NSFW pictures on Patreon
SFW pictures and 1 chapter ahead for free below. 1 Chapter will always be ahead on the pinned post linking to another page. If you want more you can pay $4.50/month for 9 chapters ahead on the story and NSFW pictures but one chapter will always be ahead in the Patreon page.
https://patreon.com/swattywriter