Of Hunts and Goats
Thirteenth Day of the Seventh Month 293 AC
The silk thread snapped taut, a few dying gasps filled the air, then silence.
Not a drop of blood on the sheets, Garin Drekelis thought, caught between a perverse pride at the effectiveness of the killing and faint disgust at how easy it had been. He had slipped into the silk-bedecked chamber like a shadow by moonlight knowing full well who he would find within, knowing that the magister would not be able to put up any kind of real fight, and now he was dead inside a brothel owed by his long time ally, seemingly killed by a courtesan. There would be no way to confirm the truth of the deed, for not even the dead man had seen his killer, and with that his heirs would reasonably enough seek protection in the storm to come. Feuds were, after all, dangerous things to weather alone. The Glassmaker's Guild would have one less contentious voice to speak against annexation. Now came the tricky part...
***
"The...er, young women have all been accounted for and are being questioned even now," Rhaella, once Queen of Westeros, delivered the news in a much firmer tone than she would have once thought herself capable of. "In four days they will all be on a ship to the Basilisk Isles far away from any vengeful relatives and with the silver to start a new life besides."
Their host quirked an eyebrow in askance. Lady Dorera Phassen was not one for sentiment and likely found the notion of protecting the courtesans from harm to be quaint, but she had not spoken up against the notions of justice. "Good, we will have to see if Asan's kin are quite ready to meet with you or if they still need more time for the seeds I planted to grow." She had her killing, not to mention years' worth of blackmail material, to use as leverage against both her peers, and surprisingly many of the priests of R'hllor the Red. "Moving on, I think Lord Trevino might come around if you were willing to give him something exciting to hunt. He fancies himself a masterful hunter you see..."
"Yes, I had heard," Rhaella replied a little sharply. "Rumor had it he hunted slaves with dogs for sport." Silence fell but she would not let it endure. "Well?"
"There is some substance to it," the Myrish noblewoman admitted reluctantly.
"Get rid of him," the former queen said, as forcefully as she had ever done when she stood to the left hand of the Iron Throne. "In recognition of the fact that there were no decent
laws for him to follow I will accept retirement to his estates away from all the strings of power, but that is as far as I am willing to..."
"Kill the bastard," Wyla interjected coldly. "Dead men are beyond causing trouble." She paused a moment, her smile a distant mirthless thing before adding: "Usually."
So did they scheme, weaving the fate of Myr, these women gathered from West and East beside one who was the city's daughter and stood to gain much in doing the bidding of the Dragon King.
***
Valaena Velaryon did not like the smell of Qohor. Its sights were fine, from towers soaring into the blue bedecked in fine and artful carvings after the Valyrian style to the colorful market stalls bright under the sun. Its sounds had an otherworldly beauty to them, brass hand drums and long intricate flutes mingling with the rhythmic sounds of morning prayers spilling out from open doorways.
But the smells... charred meat and bitter incense. It smelled like hog, but sometimes it wasn't...
"You look like you are about to puke," Maelor pointed out indelicately, but sadly she suspected not inaccurately.
"And you are not?" the girl asked, frustrated. "How can you just stand there eating... whatever the hell that is, knowing..."
"That people are nasty sons of bitches when you rile them up?" the boy finished. "Knew that already. Known it as far as I can remember."
"It's not that much worse than hanging folk, better than drawing and quartering for sure," Bronn interjected, obviously agreeing with the young sorcerer.
"I believe what is upsetting her is the
principle of the thing," the gentle voice of Soft Strider spoke up. All of them were speaking Common, some more skillful than others as they watched the street from the window of the
Sheaf and Sickle.
"They are sacrificing criminals to whatever's living in the forest, petty thieves and thugs as much as killers. How long until they start on the beggars and the just the folk who don't agree to the way the city's being run?" Valaena sighed. "I can't recommend that the King work with any of them, 'true believers' or 'heretics'."
"So do we just kill them all and salt the fields?" Maelor asked darkly. "There's priestliness in every little thing here. If we just trample on it all..."
"They will rise up, sure as sunrise,"Soft Strider said sadly.
The four companions looked on, each lost in their own thoughts as the life of Qohorik moved on under their window, unknowing of the judgement that was being cast upon them by four strangers from the west.
OOC: Well, Myr is almost done, but in Qohor the party is reaching the limits of what they can find out inconspicuously. Do you want them poking their noses in the high priest's business directly? 
