Where Fleas Dance
Fourteenth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
In the end you reach a deal satisfying to all sides, allowing you to make use of the brothel as an inconspicuous base for the Inquisition while Chataya is assured the safety of herself and her girls better than anyone else in all of King's Landing. Perhaps one might even say all of Westeros, considering the fact that help will be only a call by Whispering Brazier away and that help will be up to and including your own presence, though as in the case of the loyalist nobles you are beginning to gather in secret you dearly hope it will never come to that. The House of Mirrors is to be given the task to divine for an attack ahead of time, a fact you share with the surprised and increasingly impressed madame.
"I had thought prophecy moved where it will, not where the prophet wishes it," she explains upon being shown a demonstration of arcane divination. "Strange to think the future so open, stranger still to think it can be bought with gold, silver, or I suppose coins of another sort."
You should have guessed that your new coins would have traveled at least as far as this business in all of King's Landing. "Has there been any trouble accepting the coin?" you ask, curious.
"Not much of a one, not while the Iron Back stands by you. They are known to be canny with coin and miserly with trust, so if your coin is good enough for them it holds its worth," she replies. "Mind there have been rumors floating around alehouses that you had 'bewitched the Braavosi' but those were mostly laughed at. One bold minstrel even made a short song about Tywin Lannister being afraid you are going to seduce his piles of gold away."
"Really?" you laugh. "I'll have to get someone to track that song down, then. A limerick that lingers in the mind can be more valuable than gold in a war of words and barbs."
Before your next meeting you seek out Mia and Anya to tell them of the base you had set up in addition to whatever hooks they have managed to sink into the thugs and scoundrels of Flea Bottom. Given the work they have been doing perhaps you should not have been surprised to find them looking down at a corpse face-down in the muck of the candidly named Pisswater Bend.
If ever there has been a monument to your family's failings it is places like this, where men scramble for crusts of bread and die of nameless filth fevers within sight of the Red Keep...
The moment's contemplation after manifesting almost posts a confrontation as weapons fly to hand and spells of warding are nearly spoken into being before you give the agreed upon sign for this mission.
"I... Your Grace, my apologies," Anya stutters.
"For what?" you interject. "For noticing me from the first moment, that is to commended. There may come a day when your enemies come upon you by sorcery, and it is precisely that sort of vigilance you will have need of then."
You soon learn that their aptitude extends far beyond a sharp eye and quick wit in the face of your unexpected appearance. The man lying dead before you is part of a payment of a more unusual sort to the most successful smuggler in all of King's Landing. Wyll 'the Weasel' is getting on in years with an eye to a quiet retirement rather than looking over his shoulder for the gold cloaks to his dying day, so he had agreed to host the Inquisition in many of his safe-houses throughout the city and of course procure any supplies they may need for a price.
"I'm assuming he is looking for a pardon as well as
this..." you motion to the corpse.
"Yes, this was a show of strength, of the willingness of 'get our hands dirty'," Mia replies with a shrug. "I don't suppose this place will miss one more gang leader."
"Keep an eye on the gang fights," you caution them. "If they get too bloody or too obvious they can draw attention from on high." You idly wonder what they would say if they knew you had once worried about such things from the inside.
Establish Inquisition Outpost in King's Landing: Progress 12/12 (will complete this month)
***
From the depths of Flea Bottom you again return to the perfumed Street of Silk, though to an establishment whose sensuous facade hides darker things than Chataya's brothel. "How did you introduce me to, Baelish?" you ask Maelor.
"I just said straight up that you'd be willing to pay five hundred dragons for an hour of his time," the boy replies. "Figured I'd give you room to play any mummer's game you might like with 'im."
"And what did you think of the esteemed master of coin?" you ask, curious. From what you had heard the Mockingbird is the sort of son of a bitch Corlys Waters would have robbed blind once upon a time and which the Lawmen would likely have tried and hanged in a fortnight in Sorcerer's Deep if even a fraction of the rumors about his businesses are true.
"He wants to get on top every time, even if it's on top of a pile of shit or a mound of corpses," Maelor replies, spitting in disgust. "He don't seem to like his job though, he isn't prideful with it. Maybe he just can't stand the way the highborn treat him."
You briefly think back to what you know about Baelish, the grandson of an Essosi sellsword with lands in the Fingers, if such you could call holdings on those bleak rocky peninsulas. He had been fostered at Riverrun, how or why you do not know. From there his fortunes had just kept rising, from petty lording to customs master in Gulltown to master of coin of the Seven Kingdoms. You would say that much good fortune reeks of sorcery, but for the fact that his rise precluded the strengthening of magic. Some other intrigue must lie at the root of it all.
What do you say to Petyr Baelish?
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OOC: After this it's a cat delivery and I think a festival interview.