King's Landing, Flea Bottom.
The alleys twisted like the bowels of a dying beast, leaving gaps barely wide enough for one man to squeeze through.
The stench was a physical wall, long-settled sewage, the sour reek of garbage fermenting in damp corners, dog dung, and unwashed bodies.
It was an odor that stung the eyes and coated the tongue.
Occasionally, a shadow whisked past a corner, rustling and squeaking faintly.
It was impossible to tell whether it was a stray cat, a fat rat, or something else alive.
"If the Seven Hells' kitchens exploded," said Lord Gyles Rosby, pressing a perfumed handkerchief desperately to his face, "I swear it would smell like this!"
Ser Criston Cole lifted the edge of his hood to reveal only a pair of cold, grey-blue eyes.
He walked steadily, his boots crunching on the filth.
"Relax, Lord Gyles," he said, his voice amused.
"Try a deep breath. Please take it in. Away from the court's incense and flowers, this is the true scent of King's Landing."
"A deep breath?!" Gyles's eyes bulged, tears streaming from the assault on his senses.
"Here?! Ser Criston, I'd wager my entire next year's wages, one breath in this place is deadlier than a flagon of Dornish poison! My lungs are flesh, not steel like your armor!"
Cole gave a low laugh and stopped teasing him.
Behind them, six guards in plain liveries followed in silence, hands resting on pommels.
They threaded their way through the maze of lanes and halted before a two-story timber house hung with faded blue curtains.
Three broad-shouldered, hard-faced men stood like door-gods, arms folded.
The lead guard stepped forward and spoke softly. A few silver coins slid unnoticed into the chief thug's palm.
The man weighed them, then nodded.
"Go in," he grunted, stepping aside.
"Keep your men in check, no trouble."
Inside, the scene changed at once.
Heavy incense hit them, holding most of the outer stench at bay, though it was a jumble of mysterious spices that tickled the throat.
Deep in a second-floor room, behind an old wooden table, sat Mysaria.
She wore a high-quality, deep purple velvet gown. Her black hair was carelessly pinned up, revealing a beautiful face etched by weather and hard living.
Most striking were her eyes, amber, like a cat's.
She was methodically shelling a walnut, her nails trimmed and neat.
This was Mysaria, the White Worm.
The Lysene dancer who once had the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, bewitched. After Daemon cast her off, she did not sink.
Instead, in the foulest corner of King's Landing, she wove an invisible web of whispers.
"My, my," she said, setting the nut aside and clapping her hands. Her amber gaze studied the visitors with predatory interest.
"Look what the wind has blown into my little nest, such respectable guests. Are you lost, or did you come to Flea Bottom… for the experience?"
Gyles pushed back his hood and forced his best courtly smile.
"You jest, my lady. Your abode is… unique. Brimming with lively… local color."
"Local color?" Mysaria arched a brow and laughed softly.
"My lord has a silver tongue. For great men like yourselves to condescend… What do you want? A love potion? A dead enemy? Or the whereabouts of some wayward noble lady?"
Cole removed his hood, skipping the pleasantries.
"Blood and Cheese."
Mysaria stopped smiling. She lifted her gaze.
"In Flea Bottom, you'll find no fewer than eight or ten fellows answering to those names."
Cole said nothing more. He stepped forward and placed a small leather pouch on the table.
The mouth opened: a few bright golden coins glittered in the candlelight.
"The two I want are rat catchers," he said.
"Gods above," she murmured, her eyes flicking to the gold dragons.
"Ser, whoever's paying you is generous to the point of frightening. They're only two lowborn wretches, after all. Worth all this?"
"My lady, do you truly want the answers to such questions?" Cole's gaze chilled.
"Very well, customers' secrets are sacred." Mysaria raised her hands at once.
She turned to the doorway.
"Old Ghais!"
A gap-toothed old man with darting eyes slipped in and stood respectfully.
"Take these noble gentlemen to Androw and Jones. You know where they are," she ordered.
As they followed Old Ghais through darker, even more tangled alleys, Gyles whispered to Cole, "Are you sure that old man's reliable?"
"Rest easy, my lord!" Old Ghais's ears were sharp. He grinned back over his shoulder, showing crooked yellow teeth.
"In Flea Bottom, nothing stays secret, at least not from gold. Pay enough, and I'll tell you what smallclothes His Grace wore last night and what words he spoke in his dreams!"
"The two you're after have kept low these past years, scarce showing their faces," the old man continued.
"But folks still have to eat, drink, take jobs, and have a bit of fun. As long as they're still in Flea Bottom, I know everything about them."
Ser Criston recalled his instructions and suddenly asked, "Do they have any family?"
Old Ghais narrowed his eyes at the question. He stopped walking.
"So, my lord, you're not here to hire rat catchers?"
Ser Criston smiled. The guard beside him rested a hand on his sword hilt.
"Some things you don't guess at, and you don't ask about. Seems you're eager to get involved?"
"No, no, no." Old Ghais shook his head vigorously.
He couldn't afford to offend these great ones from the Red Keep, nor could Lady Mysaria behind him.
"I like clever men."
With that, Ser Criston signaled, and Gyles tossed Old Ghais a jingling pouch.
The old man peeked inside the weighty bag: silver stags, well over a hundred. Not gold dragons, but more coin than he'd ever dreamed of.
Meeting such a generous lord, his face trembled with excitement.
"My lord, I'll tell you everything I know."
A while later, they halted at the end of a dead-end alley before a two-story timber house so rotted by time and damp that it looked ready to collapse.
The lower door was shut; a faint yellow glow leaked through the cracks.
"This is it," Old Ghais said, pointing.
Ser Criston nodded. Old Ghais turned and left at once.
He'd been paid; he'd said what needed saying. He wanted no part of whatever came next.
Cole flicked a glance at one of the guards. The man stepped up and rapped on the door in a measured rhythm.
Voices inside ceased instantly.
Moments later came the slow creak of the door being pulled open. It opened a finger's width; a wary eye peered through the gap.
"Who're you looking for?" a voice rasped like sand on wood.
"Got pests at home," Cole said.
"I'm told you keep the best cleaners, ones who can make the problem disappear."
The gap widened. A stocky, balding man of about forty blocked the doorway, a vicious scar running from brow to chin.
"How many come in?" he asked, voice still rough.
"Me, and this lord here." Cole indicated Gyles.
"We're here to talk business."
Scar-face hesitated, studying them. Then he stepped aside.
"Inside. The rest wait out here."
Cole and Gyles entered; the door shut behind them.
The room was larger than it looked from outside, but more of a cluttered workshop-cum-warehouse.
Traps of all sizes hung from the rafters, and the smell of rusted iron and dried blood hung in the air.
Seated at a workbench, sharpening a long knife, was a lean man with an eye patch covering his left eye.
"Lord Gyles mentioned you're the finest rat catchers in King's Landing," Cole said mildly.
The two men exchanged glances.
Scar-face, Jones, nicknamed Cheese, grunted.
"Gyles? That fat steward from the Red Keep? He remembers us? Thought he'd written us off for dead."
The one-eyed man, Androw, called Blood, stopped sharpening and lifted his single eye. His gaze was heavy, cold.
"We only take odd jobs these days, catching rats."
Without another word, Cole drew a smaller leather pouch from his cloak and set it on the stained table.
The mouth opened, and twenty freshly minted gold dragons spilled out.
Both men caught their breath.
"That's not rat money," Blood murmured, his lone eye fixed on the coins.
"No, it isn't," Cole answered calmly.
He pushed back his hood to reveal a face half of King's Landing would recognize.
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Cheese's hand shot toward the knife at his belt. Blood narrowed his remaining eye like a viper studying prey.
"Ser Criston Cole?" Blood said slowly.
"Well, I'll be damned. The White Knight of the Kingsguard, come to see a pair of rat catchers? No drunk would believe it."
"I'm not here to make trouble," Cole said steadily.
"I'm here to offer you an opportunity."
"Working for who?" Cheese demanded, hand still hovering near his blade.
Gyles stepped forward and pushed back his own hood, his face grave.
"Androw, Jones, been a long time. Yes, I'm the one who recommended you to Ser Criston. The Red Keep's got a bad rat problem these days; ordinary methods won't do. We need the best professionals. And the pay will be generous; you won't be short-changed."
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