King's Landing – Flea Bottom
A narrow alley twisted like a winding intestine, leaving barely enough space for a person to squeeze sideways. The acrid stench of long-standing sewage on the ground mixed with the sour smell of rotting garbage in damp corners and the sharp tang of dog excrement—a scent only inhabitants of the slums would recognize.
Occasionally, a dark shadow whooshed past a corner, accompanied by a faint rustle or squeak, impossible to identify as cat, rat, or some other creature.
"If the seventh-floor kitchen of hell exploded," Lord Gyles Crosby pressed a fragrant handkerchief to his nose and mouth, "I bet it would smell just like this!"
Ser Criston Cole lifted the edge of his hood, revealing only a pair of grey-blue eyes, and walked steadily.
"Relax, Lord Gyles," he said.
"Forget the palace incense and flowers—this is the true scent of King's Landing."
"Breathe it in?" Gyles' eyes widened, tears forming at the edges.
"Inhaling here is worse than drinking a whole cauldron of Dorn's most potent poison wine!"
Cole chuckled quietly, no longer teasing. Six guards in new attire followed silently behind him.
They navigated the labyrinthine alleys until they arrived at a two-story wooden building, its faded blue curtains hanging limply. Three men with large hands, rounded waists, and fierce faces stood at the doorway, like gods guarding the threshold, hands clasped.
The lead guard stepped forward, quietly dropping several silver coins into the hand of the tallest man. The big man nodded twice.
Inside, the scene changed abruptly. Incense so strong it nearly neutralized the stench outside mingled with a mysterious blend of spices. At a large, old wooden table on the second floor sat Madam Messalia.
She wore a timeworn but well-tailored dark violet velvet gown, and her long black hair was loosely gathered, revealing a composed, beautiful face touched by wind and frost. Most striking were her eyes—amber like a cat's, clear and calm.
She meticulously cracked a nut, nails trimmed neatly. This was Messalia—the lover of Rys, the one who once ensnared "the Rogue Prince," Damon Targaryen. After he abandoned her, she did not fade but built an invisible intelligence network in the filthiest corners of King's Landing, becoming a key figure in the city's underworld.
"Oh," she said, setting the nut aside and clapping her hands softly. Her amber eyes regarded the visitors with curiosity.
"You two have lost your way… come to the Flea's Bottom… to experience life?"
"Experience life?" Messalia arched an eyebrow, a soft smile playing on her lips.
"My lord has a way with words."
"The big men won't come here to buy my aged nuts, will they?" she added, her voice playful.
"What do you want? A love potion? An enemy? Or the whereabouts of a certain countess?"
Her gaze shifted to the door.
"In the Flea's Bottom, there aren't ten or even eight men who go by such bluffing nicknames."
"I want those two—rat-catchers," Cole said. His eyes went cold.
Messalia raised her eyes and called: "Old Sam!"
An old man shuffled in, missing front teeth, rolling eyes, face lined with cunning wrinkles, and respectfully stepped aside.
"Lead these two gentlemen to Andrew and Jones. You know where he is," Messalia commanded.
Then she added Cole and Gyles.
"Old Sam is a living map—he knows the Flea's Bottom like the back of his hand."
Following the old man through the darker, twisted alleys, Gyles whispered to Cole:
"Are you sure this old man is reliable? He's who we're looking for…"
"My lord, you've placed a hundred hearts," Old Sam's ears twitched. He turned, revealing jagged yellow teeth in a grin.
"In the Flea's Bottom, there are no secrets—at least not from gold coins."
The two men they sought, though idle in recent years, were as discreet as shadows in the gutter. But everyone must eat, drink, and survive, right?
At the end of the alley, they stopped before another two-story wooden building, nearly collapsing from time and moisture. The lower door was closed, a weak light seeping through a crack.
"That's it," Old Sam said, rubbing his fingers.
A thin slit of a door opened, a wary eye peering out.
"Who are you looking for?" a rasping voice asked.
"Stubborn 'pests' gnawing on important things," Cole said.
"I hear you've the best hands in the trade—they handle it cleanly."
The door cracked wider. A short, sturdy man blocked the entry, around forty, bald, a terrible scar running from his left cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.
"How many enter?" he asked, voice still hoarse.
"One, with this lord," Cole indicated Gyles.
"To discuss business."
The scarred man hesitated, scrutinized them several times, especially Gyles' fine clothing in the dim light. Finally, he stepped aside.
"Enter. The rest wait outside."
Cole and Gyles stepped in one by one, the door shutting behind them.
Two men exchanged glances. The scarred man—Jones, known as 'Cheese'—snorted.
"Gyles? That old fat man running the Red Keep? He remembers us? I thought he'd have died in the sewers long ago."
Their breaths caught simultaneously. The chill in the one-eyed man's gaze shifted instantly to surprise and greed. His fingers twitched.
"This is not sewer pay," Andrew's voice was dryer, eyes fixed on the gold coin.
"Of course not," Cole said calmly, extending a hand and slowly pulling back his hood, revealing a face nearly all of King's Landing knew.
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
"Criston… Ser Cole?" Andrew said slowly.
"Who do you serve?" Jones asked warily, hand still at his waist.
At that moment, Gyles stepped forward, hood removed, revealing a serious face.
"Andrew, Jones, long time no see."
"Yes, I recommended you to Ser Cole. The Red Keep…"
"The rats have made too much noise, and ordinary methods won't suffice. We need the most professional hands to deal with them."
"Of course, the pay is generous, and you will be treated well," Cole added.