A Book of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones : Magic Network

Theon Greyjoy drew his bowstring taut against his cheek, his eyes narrowed in cold concentration. Archery had been his one true gift since his earliest days at Winterfell, a skill that had earned him grudging respect even from those Northern lords who would sooner spit on an ironborn than break bread with one. When Theon loosed an arrow, it struck true—always. He'd once boasted that he could hit the seven-pointed star centered on a copper coin, and had proved it thrice before bored onlookers.

The heads before him now presented targets far simpler than that.

Nocking another of the specially crafted arrows—those the Gold Cloaks had taken to calling "screamers"—Theon drew and released in one fluid motion, his aim unerring as the shaft whistled through the air to find the eye socket of a man in the front ranks of the seething mob.

"Quiet! Fall back!" he commanded, his voice carrying across the chaos.

Another arrow to his string, another draw, another release. Another head snapped backward, blood flowering like some grotesque red bloom where the arrowhead entered.

"Quiet! Fall back!" The command token in his hand amplified his voice to thunderous proportions.

Theon found his rhythm, a fatal cadence of death and command. One after another, the arrows flew, each finding its mark with lethal precision. He could have continued until his quiver was empty, or until three quivers or five were spent.

One, five, ten—the targets grew more distant as the crowd recoiled, the clamor diminishing with each shaft that found its mark. The faces of those who fell displayed expressions of increasing horror, their features contorted in the ugly grimace that death brings to those who meet it unprepared.

Only when his arrow caught a man already turning to flee did Theon finally lower his bow, a cold satisfaction curling his lip. The mob had retreated dozens, perhaps hundreds of paces, their mouths clamped shut, none daring to break the silence that had descended like a shroud.

A cruel smile played across Theon's face. They were, as he had always known, nothing but low-born scum who understood only the language of blood and steel. Such was the nature of smallfolk, particularly those who festered in the rotting abscess that was Flea Bottom.

Earlier, he had captured some four or five thousand of them. Then, during the chaos that had erupted across Flea Bottom, his men had taken several thousand more. Now, only a few thousand remained, their numbers dwindling to fewer than the soldiers who surrounded them with cold steel.

Should it come to open battle, Theon had no doubt every last one could be put to the sword within half an hour.

Jon Snow stepped forward, his Stark features somber in the afternoon light. "Theon, that's enough," he said quietly. "They're sufficiently cowed now. I don't believe they'll attempt further foolishness."

The unspoken reminder hung between them: His Grace desired not merely severed heads, but living bodies to serve as soldiers and laborers in the works to come.

Theon offered a careless shrug. "I suppose you're right." He nodded toward the small figure who approached from behind the line of Gold Cloaks. "Jon, our task is complete. Lord Tyrion, I believe the next move is yours."

Tyrion Lannister extended his hand expectantly. "His Grace shows such partiality," the dwarf remarked with feigned envy. "Giving out treasures that roar like thunder. Tsk, tsk."

Jon handed over the command token without hesitation.

The moment Tyrion's fingers closed around the flat, oval-shaped piece of dragon crystal, he felt the familiar resonance of magic pulsing through it. Understanding bloomed quickly in his mind; the token's function was immediately apparent to one accustomed to puzzling out complex systems.

Establishing a silent connection with the information magic embedded within the crystal, Tyrion activated it, triggering the sound rune energy that lay dormant within. The crystal would capture his voice, then amplify it beyond what any human throat could achieve.

"I am Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin," he proclaimed. "Everyone will immediately drop their weapons, kneel where you stand, accept supervision, and submit to the will of the gods and His Grace. The crimes you have committed today may yet be forgiven."

He raised the dragon crystal high, channeling the sound magic once more. His words rolled across the square like the thunder of the Crone's judgment, impossible to ignore or deny.

The crowd stirred from their terrified stupor, awareness slowly returning to their eyes.

Gleaming swords surrounded them on all sides, the soldiers bearing them as still and implacable as statues carved from ice. Commands thundered in the air with supernatural force, while the feathered shafts protruding from the bodies of those who had been too slow or too bold offered mute testimony to the price of defiance.

Who could have imagined that the Gold Cloaks would prove so merciless? They had gathered merely to voice grievances, and blood had answered their words.

Many among the crowd struggled to comprehend what had befallen them. Why would anyone expend such effort on Flea Bottom? What value could be found in its rotting hovels, or among its wretched inhabitants—those who had nothing, not even all their limbs in many cases?

Flea Bottom had never before warranted such attention. Its people were the cockroaches and rats of King's Landing, creatures to be avoided and despised, never acknowledged.

They had expected today to unfold as others had before it: the Gold Cloaks would perform their duties with minimal effort, Flea Bottom would present its usual squalid face, and the highborn would eventually retreat in disgust, leaving them once more to their accustomed existence.

Yet everything had changed.

Septons and septas moved among them preaching of doctrines and divine will, strange crystal orbs demanded answers none had prepared, and the Gold Cloaks detained anyone without coin or property, claiming it served their welfare.

Fortunately, some had escaped the initial encirclement, spreading warnings of the fate that had befallen those neighborhoods already "cleansed" by the Gold Cloaks.

The people had united then, driving off the scattered handfuls of Gold Cloaks who guarded various alleys and intersections.

What followed should have been straightforward: gather their numbers, arm themselves with whatever would serve, and make the Gold Cloaks understand that the cost of pressing forward would be too high to bear.

But everything had truly, irrevocably changed.

The Gold Cloaks had not retreated. Instead, they had pressed forward in disciplined squads of twenty or thirty, their weapons gleaming with murderous intent.

All discovered their courage to be more fragile than imagined.

None were foolish enough to sacrifice themselves for others; instead, each had fled in whichever direction seemed safest, caring nothing for those left behind.

They had scattered like leaves before the wind, each aware only of their own desperate flight.

Later, the Gold Cloaks had herded them together again, as a shepherd gathers a scattered flock. As they congregated, each avoided the positions that had proved fatal to others, yet somehow they found themselves densely packed despite their caution.

They were pressed together, squeezed from all sides, with no clear sense of direction save the imperative to keep moving.

Finally, they had found Gold Cloaks on all sides, no avenue of escape remaining.

For reasons none could fully articulate, someone had begun to curse, and like a spark falling into dry straw, it had ignited the crowd's collective fury.

Voices rose in desperate longing: "Long live King Robert!"

Indeed, those had been better days. The silver stags that nobles had tossed during tournaments had fed dozens for a day, and those with certain skills had earned substantial rewards from appreciative audiences.

Now everything stood changed. Gold Cloaks patrolled ceaselessly, prime ministers and regents came and went, and not a single tournament had been held to relieve the monotony of their struggle.

Others cursed the Gold Cloaks directly. These men deserved every foul word flung at them. It was one thing to be bullied in the ordinary course of affairs, but to cut off one's last avenue of survival—that was inhuman beyond measure.

Some even whispered curses against King Joffrey, whose parentage—long rumored, seldom believed—now seemed more credible with each passing moment.

If Renly were the legitimate king, they reasoned, surely he would not subject the denizens of Flea Bottom to such hardship.

Fueled by their own shouts, they had raised fists and makeshift weapons, a human tide that seemed unstoppable in its righteous fury. The Gold Cloaks had appeared so few, so vulnerable, that it seemed a single concerted push would sweep them away.

But it had all ended with thunder and whistling arrows.

Those at the front had been the first to retreat, even as those behind pressed forward, still unaware of the deadly response. This had been the moment for Theon's deadly archery display, which continued until all had withdrawn to the center of the encirclement, well beyond the reach of those murderous shafts.

Now, gazing at the Gold Cloaks once more, each sword and spear seemed impossibly sharp, impossibly bright. How could flesh and blood stand against such steel?

Clang clang~

A dagger clattered onto the open ground before them, the sound of metal on stone carrying clearly through the now-silent square. Hearts plummeted, then surged with desperate relief.

A great wave of discarded weapons followed, as if every arm had acted at once, motivated by a single shared instinct for survival.

"...Kneel where you stand, accept supervision, and submit to the will of the gods and His Grace. The crimes you have committed today may yet be forgiven." The commands continued to echo through the air without ceasing.

One by one, then in groups, then all at once, the crowd sank to their knees, none daring to remain upright.

The Gold Cloaks approached in disciplined formation.

In silence, each watched as they were bound with tight cords, their mouths stuffed with wooden gags, black hoods pulled over their heads to complete their subjugation.

Fear claimed them all. What fate awaited them? What would become of Flea Bottom?

Everything now rested in the hands of the Gold Cloaks—and in the will of the King who ruled from on high.

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