This short fic is part of a larger, ongoing narrative taking place in an A Song of Ice and Fire Roleplay. If you're interested in joining the story, you can create a character in Westeros or Essos on reddit at /r/gameofthronesrp. Thanks for reading!
As Night Approaches
They laughed from the darkest corner of the tavern, Muddy Jack and his lady love. Larence watched sidelong through the smoky air of the place, measuring the dagger in his heart against the one at his waist.
"Forget her, or fuck her," Wat complained beside him, wiping a moustache of foam from his upper lip. "Just don't stare at her moon-eyed."
"She swore she loved me," Larence said darkly.
"She's a whore," Wat replied. "Never believe a whore before you've paid her."
In the corner, Muddy Jack whispered something into Poppy's ear and she flushed. Larence's fingernails dug into the wooden table.
"He dies tonight."
Wat snorted. "He's young and healthy, he'll live a long while yet."
"No," Larence insisted a little too loudly, "I meant I'll kill"-
"I know what you meant, you daft fool," Wat hissed, pinching one spindly hand tightly around Larence's forearm. "Do you think you just go about announcing something like that? Half the men here pay Muddy Jack for his songs and the other half would go straight to the gold cloaks if they heard. Titus the Terrible pays a pretty penny for informers, I hear. You'd be in a gibbet by nightfall. Come on." Wat dragged Larence to his feet. "We need some fresh air."
Several pair of eyes watched them leave. One of them - rat-like and shrewd - followed.
In the creeping purple-black dusk of day's end, Muddy Way clamoured with merchant stalls closing shop and carts tugged by thick-armed workers coming from Fishmonger's Square. As Wat and Larence exited the Arrowhead, the sky seemed to be one great bruise, torn clouds hanging like bloody rags over the horizon. Although the street was busy in appearance, in truth, business had dwindled. It was whispered that the Royal fleet was crippled and the usurper, Gylen Hightower, would descend on King's Landing at any moment. Few sailors wished to lose their lives, or worse their ships, in a visit to Blackwater Bay and the price of bread and meat had soared by consequence.
"Let off, Wat." Larence complained, attempting to pry the other man's hand from his arm. Wat complied; shoving Larence up against the sod wall of a tanner's shed.
"You want to kill him," Wat said, "You want him dead."
Darkness had stolen over Larence's heart as he'd watched the two lovers whisper. Creeping like the lengthening shadows of the city's walls as daylight abandoned the world. He barely had to consider the question before responding.
"Yes," He replied.
"There's a man," Wat spoke quietly, "A sword for hire. He goes by the name of Dom. If you can afford him he does good work, quiet work. He has no love for the goldcloaks and would not double cross you as some others would."
A cart rolled by in the direction of Fishmonger's Square, heavy on timber wheels. Wat was silent for a moment, watching until it was out of earshot. In the momentary pause, the merchant shouts from the square seemed loud and desperate.
"He can be found in Flea Bottom," Wat continued, "In the burned-out husk of a pot shop on the east end. Knock and ask for a flea. He'll answer."
"How much," Larence's voice was cold, every emotion but hate burned away.
"Ten silver stags."
Larence began to walk and Wat roughly grabbed his arm just as a man sprawled into them. Larence let out a shout of surprise as he stumbled sideways a few steps.
"Seven hells!" He oathed, picking himself up from the ground as the man - unshaven and bony as a rat – apologized profusely, dusting off Larence's clothing.
"Forgive me," The thin-faced man said, "Clumsy "-
His words were cut off as someone shouted in terror. A man ran by, and a woman. Larence looked up sharply to see a shadow blot out the darkening sky. "What"- He managed before a thump of wings, as large as the sails of the ships in Blackwater Bay, turned his bowels to water.
The dragon's scream shook the earth.
Larence ran. People ran all around him. Shoving and shouting. His foot caught on the edge of an abandoned cart and he found himself on his hands and knees. Blood pooled from a gash on his arm. A heavy boot crushed his fingers. He tried to stand. Hot wind and pebbles and dust whipped around him with the next solemn wing clap, as sharp as thunder.
And as quickly as it came, the shadow was gone.
Larence's heart beat in his throat as he stood. Nearby a child sobbed. In the distance, a soft, receding thump shook the air as great wings folded against the clouds. As Larence watched, the great beast flew onwards, white scales glinting like a scar against the wounded sky.
South.
The characters in this story were written and controlled by /u/The_Eternal_Void