Rhaenyra sat in the Princess’s Household, reviewing the reports that came flooding in.
Most of the problems with the dungeons had been resolved.
Lord Strong was capable.
He had purged some of the Hightower’s agents from the law enforcement system and promoted capable mid-level officers.
He had finally secured his position as Master of Laws.
As for the prisoners who had refused to work?
They had changed their tune.
Rhaenyra had promised three meals a day to anyone who labored, and the offer was irresistible.
She had hired cooks from the Red Keep and the city to prepare hot food for the workers.
Those who performed best received a small cup of sweet mead in the evening.
What thief or cutpurse could resist hot meals?
Most had been starving in the dungeons, where even moldy black bread was a luxury.
When the prisoners saw their fellows eating three meals a day and drinking sweet mead, and when they realized the guards were forbidden from stealing their rations, their resistance crumbled.
The poor from Flea Bottom felt the same.
They called the soft white buns “princess bread” and swore they had never tasted anything so fine.
“Princess bread” was steamed bread.
Rhaenyra had her cooks build steaming racks, mix flour into dough, add yeast, and steam it.
Simple and efficient.
The common folk rarely ate well.
Even peasants with decent harvests subsisted on coarse wheat porridge and black bread.
Husked grains boiled into a paste that was hard on the stomach and unpleasant to eat.
Why not grind it into flour?
Because the mills were controlled by nobles.
Using one cost coin.
And the millers often skimmed off a portion for themselves, just as they had done for centuries.
By the time the grain returned to the farmer, no one could say how much was left.
The plight of the people was no small matter.
Now the work-relief laborers did not even ask for daily wages.
They only wanted their three meals.
The road crews were a motley sight.
Old men and women, half-grown youths, prisoners reduced to skin and bone.
Yet the atmosphere was warm.
“Give me a hand here!” “Coming!” The speaker was a half-grown lad.
He had come with a neighbor’s kin.
His home was a small village outside King’s Landing.
His brother worked a few meager acres for a knight.
Taxes were heavy.
Their parents had died young.
The two brothers barely scraped by.
No woman in the village had ever looked twice at them.
In the off-season, they came to the city looking for work.
Any work.
As long as it put food in their bellies.
Leon loved coming to King’s Landing.
But the city was expensive.
He and his brother survived on wild greens and coarse porridge from home.
When hunger bit hard, he had eaten weeds and tree bark.
Work for nobles was always fought over.
But Leon counted himself lucky.
At least he was better off than the Flea Bottom wretches.
His brother worked the fields.
This was Leon’s first time in the city alone.
The streets were cleaner than before.
More people crowded the streets, and many were working nearby.
He wondered what decrees the king had issued.
The crowd at Flea Bottom was thick.
People pressed around the guards.
Out of curiosity, Leon squeezed into the crowd.
His sturdy frame caught the eye of the recruiters.
He was chosen first.
At first, he thought he was being taken for forced labor.
But any resentment vanished with the first hot meal, shared by the ravenous crew.
Leon licked his lips.
He was one of the lucky ones.
He had heard that the kind-hearted princess had ordered special care for the weakest laborers, the elderly and the women.
They were surplus hands between planting seasons, mouths their families could not feed.
Who among the poor had not done hard labor?
Only nobles enjoyed leisure.
The rest worked like beasts, young or old.
Thinking of the coming lunch, Leon swallowed.
His neighbor spoke up.
“I heard today’s stew is cream soup!” “They say the princess sent fresh cream from the Red Keep, and vegetables from outside the city.
By the Seven, I haven’t had cream in years.
I still remember the last time.
I swear by the Mother, it was the best thing I ever ate.” “Cream soup?
Truly?” “Yes, yes!” The conversation lifted everyone’s spirits.
Their minds drifted to the Red Keep’s kitchens.
The overseers did not scold them.
Lunch was coming.
The work was still getting done.
Growling stomachs broke the silence.
The workers laughed.
But on the other side of the work site, hardened criminals glared at the common folk.
The laborers quickly lowered their heads.
The two work crews were different.
The criminals had more guards.
After their shift, they would return to their cells.
They were dangerous men.
“What are you staring at?
Get back to work!” A supervisor shouted.
“You want to skip lunch today?
Want to go back to your cell instead?” “No, no!
I’ll work, I’ll work!” The troublemakers backed down.
They were not stupid.
The ones who had caused trouble before had been beaten and locked away.
Now they had fresh air and hot food.
Only a fool would start another fight.
Leon’s thoughts still lingered on the princess bread.
He could eat his fill at lunch and dinner.
Sometimes he even had leftovers to take home.
He would ask for leave soon.
He wanted to bring the extra bread to his brother.
His brother ate coarse food every day.
He would love the soft, sweet taste.
Leon remembered the flavor.
The Red Keep’s cooks sometimes added milk and honey.
It left a faint sweetness on the tongue.
He swallowed and continued his thoughts.
“The princess sometimes comes to the work site and eats with us.” A meal shared with officials and the princess herself.
Even plain food turned special when the cooks knew royalty would be tasting it.
Yesterday, he had even received a reward: a cup of sweet mead.
It tasted better than any ale he had ever drunk.
Perhaps it was just his imagination.
Others would request leave too.
City folk could bring food home in the evening.
Those from the villages had to carry it back overnight.
Leon’s hands kept working even as his mind wandered.
The road grew smoother by the minute.
Then the gong sounded.
Rest time.
Helpers carried in a huge pot of soup and a basket of steamed buns.
The workers formed a line faster than any troop of soldiers.
Every man produced a bowl or jar from somewhere.
City folk had been told to bring their own utensils.
Country folk were issued theirs and told to keep them safe.
Rumor had it that the Red Keep had run out of plates.
King Viserys had noticed fewer dishes on his table and wondered if the cooks were unhappy.
The princess, fearing her father’s anger, had taken her meals at the work site.
Leon knew it was just a joke at the princess’s expense.
He was just a peasant who knew nothing of lords and ladies.
But in that moment, looking at the line of workers and the steaming food, he felt a strange confidence in the princess.
“She will be the best queen King’s Landing has ever had.”