The sun was about to set as Marei made her way up the gentle slope of Rhaenys's Hill. From the top, she could see scavengers sifting through the muddy shore of Blackwater Bay, collecting scraps of metal and pieces of driftwood. Occasionally, one would pull a good piece of armor off a burned body, but their finds were getting smaller and smaller. Still, the tide was falling, and the price for decent metal was high. Marei knew most of them would keep working through the night.
Five days after the fighting had ended, the air still smelled of blood and charred bone. Most of all, the heavy odor of wildfire still clung to the air. The water of Blackwater Bay had burned for days, green flames consuming everything in their path as the current carried them past the waterfront and out to sea.
It was almost dark by the time she had made her way down again, but this was just the hour the foot of the hill came to life these days. A captain in a long green cloak nearly rode her down as she passed the Street of Sisters. Drunk as a dog, that one. The only thing worse than a drunk soldier is a drunk soldier on a horse.
Marei drew her hood into her face. She did not like coming to Flea Bottom at night, much less when the city was swarming with Lannister and Tyrell troops, but it was either this or facing Chataya's wrath. All she could do was hope nobody would pay her any mind in her coarse brown cloak and knee-high heavy boots.
The woman they called the Crone lived in an alley off the Street of Flour. There were perhaps hundreds of barbers in King's Landing who earned their coin setting broken bones and selling herbs and potions to the city's poor, but it was the Crone people called when a life was at stake, even in the richer parts of town. Some went so far as to claim the Grand Maester had once consulted with her on the right treatment for the Mad King's madness.
Whether that was true or not, over the years, the Crone had made enough money she could have easily afforded one of the manses by the Old Gate. But for whatever reason, she stubbornly refused to move to the other side of Rhaenys's Hill. She's not staying in Flea Bottom out of the goodness of her heart, that much is for sure. The old woman charged a hefty fee for her services from both rich and poor alike.
The entrance to her home was blocked by two men playing cyvasse, but they let her pass without so much as looking up from their game. The Crone herself was sitting in front of her fireplace, peeling an orange with a dagger. Marei had to knock on the open door twice before she turned around.
"Chataya sends me. Her daughter has a fever... a corrupted wound that won't heal. She fears the rot may be spreading. We would have brought her here, but the girl is too weak to leave her bed."
The old woman eyed her up and down before putting the dagger aside. "Is that so? And how would I walk all the way to the Street of Silk?"
Marei knew the game she was playing. "We can pay one of your guards to carry you," she said coolly. "Don't worry. If you have to spend the night, you shall have the best room and the finest food we can offer." Though we won't be able to serve you oranges, I fear.
The Crone's mouth widened into a toothless smile as she pushed herself up from her armchair. "So long as your customers won't come botherin' me. You will have to pay me a dragon now though. Two more after I'm done."
"Three dragons?"
"And another for my guard. The war has driven up the prices of food. I can barely feed myself."
Ah, yes, I can see that. But Marei was not in the mood for arguing. It was Chataya's money after all, not her own. "Very well. Four dragons, two now, two later – if Yaya lives."
The old woman shrugged. "Suits me fine. No girl's ever died under my watch."