Blood of Dragons

What was meant to be a gesture of justice ended in blood, clamor, and a child’s first cry.

Ser Omrys Baratheon, Reeve of King’s Landing, descended into the depths of Flea Bottom to hold audience with the city’s most wretched. Beneath the looming ruin of the Dragonpit and beside the muddy well that serves the quarter’s thirst, he called the smallfolk to voice their grievances. They came by the hundreds: beggars and butchers, fishwives and sweeps, all burdened with petty thefts, rising prices, and crimes unmet by the Watch.

But grievances, once stirred, do not sit quietly. As the crowd swelled and the petitions sharpened, Ser Omrys’s words grew colder, his manner imperious. Then a crone, wild-eyed and shrieking, cast a swaddled bundle at his horse’s hooves. “Murder,” she howled. The bundle, they say, was the body of her grandchild.

The square exploded.

Stones flew. Rotten fruit split against armor and skin. In the surge, Lady Lenora Lannister was struck and brought low; her handmaid bloodied in her defense. Ser Jon Roxton, grim and unflinching, waded into the throng to pull them free, while Ser Orbert Farman, stung by insults flung at his fallen kin, raised his voice and his blade, further fanning the fire.

Even as panic surged and gold cloaks mustered in the alleys, a second cry rose, sharper than the first.

Lady Arwen Westerling, heavy with child and caught amidst the crush, went into labor. She was borne into a nearby house by Ser Omrys himself, and there, amid overturned stalls and shouts echoing through the streets, she delivered a daughter into the world.

The City Watch quelled the unrest before it spread beyond the square. A handful of arrests were made, and rumors whisper that one or two poor souls did not survive the stampede. A shutter was broken, a cart overturned, but no buildings fell to fire or blade. Some say it was a thief or cutpurse who cast the first stone, seizing the chaos for mischief or gain. If the flames of anger were fanned by darker hands, they vanished swiftly into the alleys.

Flea Bottom simmers again in uneasy quiet. Yet many wonder whether justice was served or only mocked beneath the shadow of the Dragonpit. And across the city, tongues wag of noble valor, crumbling order, and a girl born amidst the riot’s roar.