King's Landing, Flea Bottom.
The narrow lanes twisted like intestines, leaving gaps only wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways.
The rot-stink of filthy water long pooled on the ground, the sour reek of refuse fermenting in damp corners, dog shit—an odor strong enough to sting the eyes shut.
Now and then, a dark shadow would go "whoosh" past a corner, stirring a burst of rustling and a fainter squeaking, hard to tell whether it was a feral cat, a fat rat, or some other living thing.
"If the kitchens of the seven hells blew up," Steward Rosby pressed a perfumed handkerchief hard over his mouth and nose, "I'd wager it would smell like this!"
Criston Cole tugged the edge of his hood lower, showing only a pair of gray-blue eyes. His stride remained steady. "Relax, Lord Rosby."
"Try taking a deep breath and feel it."
"Once you leave the incense and fresh flowers of court, this is the true smell of King's Landing."
"Deep breath?!" Gyles' eyes went wide, tears streaming down his face.
"Here?! Ser Cole, I'd stake all of next year's pay on it."
"One breath in this place is deadlier than downing a whole jug of Dornish poison wine!"
"My lungs are flesh-grown, not hammered out of the steel plates you wear!"
Cole let out a low chuckle and did not tease him further.
Behind them, six guards who had changed into new clothes followed in silence.
They struggled through the maze-like alleys and finally stopped before a two-story wooden building hung with a faded blue cloth curtain.
Three thick-armed, broad-shouldered men with vicious faces stood guard at the door, arms folded.
The guard leading the way stepped forward and spoke in a low voice. A few silver coins slid soundlessly into the palm of the lead man.
The man weighed them in his hand, then nodded.
"Go in." The man shifted aside. "Keep your people in line. Don't go looking for trouble."
But the scene inside changed abruptly. A heavy, pungent incense hit them full in the face, successfully blocking out most of the stench outside—though it was a blend of several mysterious spices.
Deep in a room on the second floor, behind an old wooden table, sat Mistress Mysaria.
She wore a deep purple velvet gown of decent quality. Her long black hair was loosely pinned up, revealing a well-kept face—beautiful, yet etched with the marks of wind and weather.
Most striking were her eyes, amber-colored.
She was intently peeling a nut, her nails neatly trimmed.
This was Mysaria—the Lysene lover who had once won the heart of Daemon Targaryen, the "Rogue Prince."
After Daemon abandoned her, she did not sink into ruin. Instead, in the filthiest corner of King's Landing, she wove an invisible web of information.
"Ah, ah, ah," she set the nut down and dusted off her hands. Her amber eyes sized up the visitors with clear interest.
"Look at that—what wind has blown such respectable guests into my hole?"
"Are you two lost, or did you come to Flea Bottom on purpose… to experience life?"
Gyles pulled back his hood and forced the smile he was best at. "My lady, you jest. This place of yours… is quite distinctive, brimming with a vigorous… air of life."
"An air of life?" Mysaria arched a brow and gave a soft laugh. "My lord, you do have a way with words."
"For two great lords to stoop so low…"
"What do you want?"
"A love potion? An enemy? Or the whereabouts of some noblewoman?"
Cole also removed his hood. He did not trade pleasantries, going straight to the point. "Blood and Cheese."
Mysaria lifted her eyes as she spoke.
"In Flea Bottom, men with that nickname—there are eight if not ten."
Cole said no more. He stepped forward and placed a small pouch on her table.
The mouth of the pouch had come loose, revealing several coins—golden, bright enough to dazzle.
"The two I want are ratcatchers," Cole said.
"My… gods." She counted the gold dragons on the table and spoke under her breath.
"Ser, the patron behind you… is generous in a way that's frightening."
"Aren't they just two lowly wretches?"
"Is it worth this?"
"My lady, there are some questions you are very eager to know?" Cole's gaze turned cold.
"All right, all right—customers' secrets above all." Mysaria immediately raised both hands.
She turned toward the doorway and called, "Old Giss."
An old man missing a front tooth, his eyes darting about, slipped in at the call and stood respectfully to the side.
"Take these two honorable sers to find Andrew and Jones. You should know where they are," Mysaria ordered.
...
As they followed Old Giss through even darker, more tangled alleys, Gyles could not help asking Cole again in a low voice, "Are you sure this old bastard can be trusted?"
"My lord, you can set a hundred hearts at ease!" Giss had sharp ears. He turned back with a grin, baring uneven yellow teeth. "Flea Bottom has no secrets—at least not from gold coins."
"So long as the coin is enough, I can find out what smallclothes His Grace wore last night, and what dream-talk he muttered!"
"The two you're looking for—true, they haven't shown their faces much these past few years, keeping a very low profile."
"But they still have to eat, drink, take work, and find some fun, don't they?"
"As long as they're still in Flea Bottom."
"Everything about them—I know it all."
Cole remembered the instructions and suddenly asked, "Do they still have family?"
Hearing Cole's question, Giss narrowed his eyes.
"Seems you lords aren't here to hire rat-extermination experts?"
Cole smiled. At his side, the guards had already rested their hands on their sword hilts.
"There are some things you should not guess at, and should not try to understand."
"So—are you very eager to get involved?"
"N-no, no, no."
Giss shook his head. These great figures from the Red Keep were not people he could afford to offend—not even with Lady Mysaria behind him.
"I like clever men," Cole said. As he finished speaking, Gyles behind him tossed Old Giss a small pouch that jingled sharply.
Old Giss looked at the heavy pouch, pried it open—and found it filled with silver stags.
No fewer than a hundred, at least. They were not gold dragons, but to him, it was already an enormous sum.
Rarely did he encounter such generous great lords. Excitement and trembling crept across Old Giss's face.
"My lord, I'll tell you everything I know."
A short while later, they finally stopped at the end of a dead alley, before a two-story wooden building that looked as though it had been gnawed away by years and damp, ready to collapse at any moment.
The door panels on the ground floor were tightly shut, a faint yellowish light seeping through the cracks.
"This is the place." Old Giss pointed at the house.
Cole nodded. Old Giss turned and left at once.
He had been paid, and everything that needed to be said had been said. He had no desire to know more—he understood the value of knowing when to stop.
Cole gave a signal to one of the guards.
The guard stepped forward and knocked on the door in a measured rhythm.
The voices inside cut off abruptly.
After a moment, the sound of the door being slowly pulled open came with a creak.
A narrow slit opened in the door, a single wary eye peering out from behind it, sizing them up.
"Who're you looking for?" a voice rasped, like sandpaper scraping.
"There are pests in the house," Cole said. "I heard you have the best cleaners—men who can deal with it thoroughly."
The gap in the door widened a little. A short, thickset man blocked the entrance, around forty years old, bald, with a vicious knife scar slashing across his face from brow ridge to the corner of his mouth.
"How many come in?" he asked, his voice still hoarse.
"Me, and this lord here." Cole gestured toward Gyles. "To talk business with you."
The scar-faced man hesitated, gave them another measuring look.
In the end, he stepped aside. "Come in. Everyone else—wait outside."
Cole and Gyles entered the house one after the other. The door closed behind them.
The room was more spacious than it looked from outside, but it felt more like a cluttered workshop combined with a storeroom.
"Lord Gyles mentioned that the best ratcatchers in King's Landing can be found here," Cole said mildly.
The two men exchanged a look.
The scar-faced man (Jones, nicknamed "Cheese") snorted. "Gyles? That old fat steward from the Red Keep?"
"He still remembers us? I thought he'd written us off as dead long ago."
The one-eyed man (Andrew, nicknamed "Blood") finally stopped his grinding and lifted his single eye, his gaze sweeping over Cole and Gyles with a tangible weight. "These days we only take small, piecemeal jobs—catching rats."
Cole said nothing more. He reached into his cloak, took out another, smaller leather pouch, and set it down on the grime-stained table.
The mouth of the pouch loosened, and twenty brand-new gold dragons rolled out.
Both men's breathing hitched at the same time.
"That's not a rat-killing price," Andrew said blankly, his single eye locked hard on the coins.
"Of course not," Cole replied evenly. He slowly reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a face almost no one in King's Landing failed to recognize.
The air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
Jones's hand snapped toward his lower back. Andrew narrowed his remaining right eye, studying them like a viper sizing up prey.
"Ser Criston Cole?" Andrew said slowly.
"Well, I'll be damned. The king's white knight, coming to see the likes of us… rat sellers? Say that out loud and not even a drunk would believe it."
"I am not here to cause trouble," Cole said steadily. "On the contrary, I am here to offer you an opportunity."
"Working for whom?" Jones asked warily, his hand still not leaving his back.
At that moment, Gyles stepped forward and also removed his hood, revealing a grave expression.
"Andrew. Jones. It's been a long time."
"That's right. I was the one who recommended you to Ser Cole."
"The Red Keep these days… has a serious rat problem. Ordinary methods no longer work. We need the most professional hands to deal with it."
"Of course, the pay will be generous. You will not be treated unfairly."
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