Black Wages

'All these hungry mouths and here I am craving food for the soul.'

-Taken from 'The Early Musings of Prince Rhaenar' by Brien Flowers

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You wouldn't have known the night before that the City Watch had purged the city's criminal underworld.

In a smoky room, hooded figures gathered in a council chamber of their own.

The first to speak was the most outgoing and personable of the bunch. The bottom half of his handsome mustached smile could be seen under his robe in the dim light, his gold tooth gleaming.

On the streets, he was known as Don Silk.

Perfume wafted from him as he spoke, "Our Prince of Fleabottom did very well! All with the help of our information, of course. How fared you, alley man?"

Don Shade rarely smiled, his missing teeth evident when he gnarled, "Many hands were lost that night. None of my boys. They stayed off the streets."

Don Silk chuckled, "That would have been hard for them, I'm sure. As for my ladies, they are delighted for their less wanted patrons to have been culled."

Don Tempest refrained from telling one of his infamous stories about his ancestors, "The conditions were perfect for us. What with all the garrison looking elsewhere and the clouded night, our black ships sailed in without a problem."

Shade glared at his fellow Don, "Yes, I'm sure you had an easy time, you smuggling bastard. Don't forget it's me who moves all the product."

At that moment, a meat cleaver clacked on the table, erect at an angle. All the Dons of King's Landing shuddered and took heed, all but one.

The fourth figure unhitched the cleaver and held it deftly in his hands. The apron under his robes was stained with blood. This was a large fellow, with wide working man forearms and commanding shoulders.

"Fuck up," Don Reaper's voice carried an odd, casual murderousness, "I'm wasting time here with you lot. I ought gut you pigs right here, feed you to your fucking families. Dumb cunts."

Don Reaper spat in disdain.

A last figure raised a diplomatic hand.

"While I disagree with the execution, I must agree with our friend. Let us move to the matter at hand."

This was he who sat at the head of the table, a man whose existence and identity would become a legend throughout the ages.

The Don above Dons, you could say he was the Donnest of them all. The first and last. The end and all.

But at this time, his name was known to only a select few.

His name was Don Kiwi.

Don Kiwi's features were the most shrouded of all.

"It seems the red stuff has caught the crown's attention," Don Kiwi stated, "If only they knew how much it was selling for."

Don Shade hid his toothless grin, "It's fetching a pretty penny. Our boys can't move the stuff fast enough."

"I suspect it won't take long for household knights to get their hands on it," Don Kiwi mused, "Were it not for the limited supply, the Ruff would have spread to Bitterbridge by now."

Don Tempest frowned, "All I can say is we don't have enough ships to meet the demand."

"Fear not," Don Kiwi reassured, "Even if you did have the ships, there is not enough production to supply the continent. It would take multiple locations... Hundreds of grunts trained... Don't stress. Continue as you are."

Don Reaper fondled his meat cleaver in disgust with his large hands, "Yeah, yeah. What's this shit about me having new targets?"

"No need to worry," Don Kiwi responded calmly, "This should quite please you. Central Casting requires you to snatch targets with a more... fairer complexion. The more silver, the better."

Don Reaper licked his lips, "The best silver comes from women. Wait till you have a taste."

At that moment, all the other Dons glanced at each other and cringed.

"No thanks..." they all said in unison.

.

..

…

..

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And so the time arrived for the tournament at hand.

Credit must be given to King Viserys for seeking professional opinion, consulting his maesters, and checking the moon charts to plan the event. Invitations were sent out accordingly.

Lords and ladies from across the land gathered to celebrate the birth of the King's third child. 

They appreciated the ample notice provided to RSVP and organize their households for their absence during the festivities.

The residents of King's Landing were accustomed to such large influxes of crowds come the time of grand events.

Lodgings were fully booked, with no vacancy to be found. 

The brothels jazzed with activity, serving hundreds each night. Gold, silver, and copper changed hands freely for a taste of pleasure.

The locals were no fools. Each pot shop would invest in higher-quality ingredients to cook up superior pots of brown stew and increase their prices. 

It was events such as these where even the poorest among them in King's Landing could relish a hearty pot of stew and savor what resembled real meat and vegetables. 

'ReSeMbLeD'…

Prince Rhaenar stood atop the battlements of the Mud Gate and beheld the increased activity happening below in Fishmonger's Square.

A smile played on his lips. He was pleased to see how his fellow King's Landians had taken to industry.

Theodore Reyne joined the prince's side and joined in the observations.

"Look at that, Theodore," Prince Rhaenar said, "Do you not feel their gamesmanship has improved? I haven't felt this surrounded by hustlers since our time in Lannisport. Mayhaps our economy can surpass theirs yet."

Theodore peered down at the busy market with skepticism. "As it should. The capital is in a far superior position for trade than Lannisport."

"On that topic," Rhaenar said, "I have an idea for how we can improve our exports."

Theodore raised a ginger brow. "Do tell."

"Imagine a large building dedicated to making a singular product. A 'factory,' if you will. Say it was dedicated to making shoes, for instance. A traditional cobbler would make every part of the shoe. This process is very time-consuming for a single individual. In the factory, however, we would have different stations where workers dedicate themselves to one part of the shoemaking process."

Theodore hummed ponderously. "I can see how that would increase production. Take, for instance, the Arsenal in Braavos. That shipyard employs a similar process to what you described. Men dedicated to constructing a single part of a ship. Each team makes those parts individually at fast speeds. Then they simply attach all the components together and a ship is finished. They can complete an entire sea-ready galley in a single day in this manner."

Rhaenar snapped his fingers and pointed. "Exactly. And instead of paying each worker for each product they produce, we could simply give them an hourly wage. In this manner, we maximize the working class for labor. Those employed will believe they have a comfortable job paying their expenses when in reality their time is being exploited."

Such an idea was so devilishly suited to maximum gain with minimum effort that Theodore had no choice but to admire his young student now grown Prince of the realm.

"Simple yet genius. I can't believe the noble Houses haven't been doing this for thousands of years. Where did you come by such a scheme?"

Rhaenar shrugged. "It is my belief such a system is lodged in man's consciousness. Our evolution toward it is inevitable. The only reason factories don't exist on mass yet is due to socioeconomic conditions."

Theodore scratched his chin. "Such a sad picture of our future."

Rhaenar scoffed. "Please. You, more than anyone, share my pessimism toward man's innate nature. Don't get sentimental on me now."

Theodore chuckled at the truth of it. "So it's business as usual, then?"

The prince nodded.

"Mmm. Business as usual."