STELLE

Even as she went sailing off making planetfall, Stelle still couldn't believe she hadn't resisted harder. Or come up with another argument as to why plopping down in the middle of a densely-populated city was maybe kinda sorta not the best idea off Welt's infinite ingenuity.

But here they were: Planetfall, into not the best-lit place in Planetos.

Dan Heng landed with a stylish whoosh. Stelle wobbled, but stood up all right.

March... went down on her behind. There was a blunt wet plop when her palms hit the ground. She lifted herself up, and grimly raised her palm up. Her eyes narrowed, then widened in horror.

"EWW!"

It took Dan Heng but one glance. "Here," he said, and produced a sheet of wet wipe from their shared bottomless inventory.

March snatched the sheet like her life depended on it. She wiped her hand with excessive force, then leaned back for momentum. She hurled away the balled-up paper towel. Off it sailed like a grenade, and vanished into the noiseless shadow.

"It didn't hit anyone, did it?" Dan Heng said.

Stelle shrugged. "If it did we would have heard something. Probably a few swears."

March exhaled hard. She looked glumly at her (now ostensibly clean) palms. "Remember what Welt said? The first thing to do?"

Dan Heng surveyed the surrounding. "Setting up the remote anchor?" He wrinkled his nose. "That might have to wait."

"I could use some light. Where even are we?" March said.

"My point exactly."

They seemed to have been beamed down somewhere dark, and dirty, and stinky. The worst of Belobog's Underworld smelled like perfume in compare. Hence, March's little predicament.

As Stelle got more used to the darkness, she started to take in the surrounding. They were on a street, no doubt about it. In fact, they'd landed themselves on the dead end of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by crooked buildings and puddles of grime. No lamp-post in sight, nor trash cans. The residents had been piling their refuse in open air, and from the look of it hardly anyone cleaned after them.

Stelle waved the duo's gaze off her. "Don't look at me," Stelle said. "I'm not after just any sort of trash."

But theirs were the only pair of eyes on her at all.

There were no one else around them.

The hour was late.

The lack of lighting brought a chill to her spine. There was a sense of desolation: like there used to be a lot of life here, unsavory as it might be, but now the air itself was weighing heavily down on those who breathed it. And it wasn't even the stench. Stelle would know. She did like to dumpster-dive.

"Let's get out of the lane first," Dan Heng said.

Stelle and March did as they were suggested. Now they came to a junction of several winding roads. Above them were shanty roofs upon lichen-infested wooden walls, and stone archways propping up what could be either an old stone bridge or an old stone aqueduct. There were torches placed along public walls, but those were too few and too far between. Each of the four or five streets ahead of them seemed to disappear into the dim cityscape, like snakes swallowed by a hungry void.

"Keep your eyes and wits about you," Dan Heng's voice was grim. He looked around, and his spear materialized.

March forced a grin. "Heh, heh, heh, is it necessary?" She, of course, followed suit once Stelle pulled out her bat.

"Where next?" Stelle said. Each path seemed as good (or awful) as the next. The air of unfriendly tension was there to stay.

"We should choose a random direction and move?" she said. "Flip a coin? Pull a lot? Scissor-paper-stone?"

Dan Heng was opening his mouth, but no sound came out. He flipped around.

"'Ey. Yer folks look lost."

The voice came from a tiny man wearing a vest stained brown and pants ripped above the ankle. He was tiny. He stood shorter than March, in fact, and had to stare up to see eye-to-eye with Stelle at all. His voice was squeaky, and he smelled like a whole rat warren.

It was a standoff.

The man stood there while the astral travelers faced him. One party was armed to the teeth, the other was... well, a little guy wearing stained work-clothes.

If the little man intended to steal or rob, the very visible spear Dan Heng was carrying should be something of a deterrence. And Stelle had her bat, too, and that translated to a bigger threat in a narrow alleyway.

He gave them a look. Sized up their weapons. Then, as if it's something he saw every day, he laughed.

"Bit o' an advice," he said. "Don' go into the Flea Bo'om wearing your gems an' your jewels, or yer legs bare. Bad, bad things happen t' gol'-handed and pretty-faced folks down here."

"Hey!" March shouted.

"We'll do fine, thank you," Dan Heng said. "It is impolite to comment as such without introducing yourself."

"Yer sure?" he said. "A' I said, you folks look lost." Dan Heng raised his spears just a few inches higher. "Ah, you're right. Cheese, 'tis what 'em call me. Cheese the Ratcatcher, 'cos I grab 'em rats an' pawn them eight-groats a tail."

"We're travelers," Dan Heng said. "New in town."

"Sure yer all," Cheese said. "An' I be the Lord of Lannis'er, and shits gol' and piss silver."

March was outraged. "Language!"

Stelle asked the question that needed asking. "What is a Lannister?"

Based on the reaction of, well, mostly everyone, Stelle had just said the right thing... or the very, very wrong thing.

"Stelle?" March looked like she wanted to scream at the top of her voice. "Whatever happened to blend in?" Unable to really shout without bringing attention, her face just turned really red instead.

The man's watching eyes seemed to bulge outwards a little. "A'ight, I see. New to King's Landin', no? Tell you what," Cheese said. "'Tis yer lucky day that you met me. You daft lot would've been robbed of all yer things, daft as yer all are."

"I wouldn't try anything if I were you."

"'Ey, 'ey, no need t' get violent," he said, stepping back and waving both arms.

Stelle thought she should be alarmed. Alright, maybe a little more thought goes into this.

"And what are you doing here?" March said.

The tiny man chuckled. "Me? Hangin' round, drinkin', maybe whorin' if I got me pay soon 'nough," he said, turning his palm up. "More than that you's got to pay up."

"Pay up? I am warning you," Dan Heng said coldly.

Pay up. That's right, Stelle thought, and her heart sank, the planet is disconnected from the IPC reach. Of course that meant the mountains of credit they had accrued meant nothing. The absolute fortune they got themselves into.

"Oh, yer misunders'anding good old Cheese," he said. "I'm hones'. Fer the mos' part. Thought I shoulda lent some lost folk a hand or two. But a man's got to fill his purse somehow, ain't he? O' course if yer not dealin', I ain't keepin' yer. Streets' open, by order o' His Grace the King, robbin' an' thievin' ain't tolerated, see."

Stelle groaned. Sampo Koski, come back. All is forgiven.

Dan Heng began before she could start again. And between herself and, well, herself, she had to admit maybe it was the better choice. "We don't have the local money," he said. "But maybe you could use this. Or sell this somewhere."

There was a small flash of light on his palm. The light faded, and Dan Heng revealed a pair of Musketeer's boots – which he was holding by the scuff. He laid the pair on the table softly, like a merchant offering his ware.

At once Stella felt stupid. Material claimed off the Calyxes was worth something, Stelle was aware. Because those who couldn't use IPC credit could still use hats and boots and gloves and some nice clothes. And even if they couldn't, well, material was material and there was no world in existence where raw material couldn't sell for something.

"Nice... trick, eh, hidin' that off?" he said. Dan Heng was attentive: the man's shoes was wearing out at an alarming rate. Stelle would give him a day, maybe a week, before one of his toes would show through the tip of his boots. "Sure yer wanna give me that for sum yarns? That'd make you an easy mark for the boys around this here place."

Dan Heng patted on his spear pole. "You wouldn't say that if you, or your boys, intended to scam us."

"Maybe don't intend that at all," Stelle said. She hoped her sleepy-looking smirk was threatening enough. Or maybe goofy enough; whatever worked, worked.

"Assume we're folks from really, really far away who don't know anything," she said. "Please? Please-" Her voice dragged out long.

The little man looked left, then he looked right, then at the pair of well-polished boots. He licked his lip. His brows were animate. He could not take his eyes off the pair of boots. "A'ight," he said at last. "Deal."

He thought for a while. The he looked his finger. "Follo' me."

"Where to?" Dan Heng and March said, virtually in unison.

"Only place a workin' man can breathe in a half-mile and talk like gentle folks. The Halfhand Brewer."

Dan Heng shuddered. March cringed. Stelle shrugged. "Not a name that inspires a lot of confidence..." she said.

"Tell me about it," Cheese said, and led the way.

The trio – well, the quad – went along unlit and unpaved streets, so narrow they had to walk single-file – first Dan Heng, then March, then Stelle at the end. Not entirely unpaved, Stelle remarked after a short while. Some efforts had been made at some point, to cobble up part of the broader streets, but those must not have been very frequent or consistent, and that actually made things worse, not better. The pavings were often broken, and unpleasant looking (and smelling) liquids were pooled up between the cracks.

The squalor only became more abject and absurd as they trudged on. The houses were built shabbily, leaning against one another like old cardboard files in an old-fashioned archive. Haphazard overhangs jutted out from the second and third floors of the taller buildings, strangling the sky above.

Save for the occasional travelers draped in gold-dyed capes wearing swords on their hips and the slightly more frequent staggering drunks, the streets didn't get any more crowded or lively.

"'Ey, don' cross the gol'cloaks," Cheese said sharply.

"Are they a..." March began. She choose her next words very, very carefully. "Some sort of a..." The word she was thinking of, Stelle guessed, was gang.

She didn't finish the sentence, but Cheese got the message. "Sev'n hells, no," he said. "That's them city guards. Got some fine lads 'ere, and some landed Sers even, back when good Prince Daemon was still in charge. That's almost twenty years back. Now business' got worse and worse. Least the thiefs stay outta their ways when the golds are on the prowl."

March was just opening her mouth again, but the man shushed her. "Walk. Ask la'er."

And sure enough, the man did lead them to something of a destination. It was not much to look at: the so-called Halfhand Brewer was a two-storeyed building of sturdy stone nestled between two taller but narrower wooden houses. Firelight was streaming out from the gaps on the wooden windows. Cheese pushed the large door ajar. He didn't bother to hold it open, and the brave trailblazers went through after him, one after another, till Stelle closed the door politely behind her. You are what you are when no one's looking, she thought, and her number of good deeds seemingly grew by one count.

Cheese was waiting for them at a table in an alcove near the corner where no one was looking - at first examination. The establishment was dominated by a smell best described as trash made commonplace: human sweat, stale food, edible food, wine, vinegar disguised as wine, and certain other stinging smells that Stelle did not want to think further about. Yes, Jarilo-VI dumpsters were more pleasant.

"Yer 'now what," he said. "Yer folks mighta not be all that hopeless, shall we say?" He turned to wards the counter – yes, the place had a counter, hidden behind dim lights and the shadow of several racks and shelves. "'ey, matey! A house special for good ol' Cheese's pals 'ere."

"Yer got it," came the response from behind the shadow.

In a half minute flat came a squat young man wearing his dirty apron proudly, with four mugs in tow, two in each hand, handles hooked in place by his thick fingers. The mugs looked so watery and frothy Stelle thought March was about to barf.

She downed it in one gulp.

It tasted, quite literally, like trash. Unsurprisingly: the unappealing kind.

As the fluid went down her throat, Stelle briefly considered the fact of her existence, the reality and absolute state of the galaxies. Suddenly all appeared to be a lie. Her body was a lie. The Stellaron inside her was a lie. The adventure of the last some time in Jarilo-VI was a lie. The love of her life - the many trashcans and dumpsters - were an illusion implanted upon her mind by a cruel star-god. In the universe there was only a dull, rumbling, foul suffering, stumbling with a peg-leg through existence like an engine of destruction Oh great Nanook be praised-

-oh. That was just her stomach. Never mind.

Dan Heng wisely kept his mouth – and nose – out of the mug. "Are you more willing to open up now?"

Cheese nodded. "So," the man began. "Now if yer speakin' the truth, an' not playin' jokes, welcome to King's Landin'. Or rather, Flea Bottom, home to the smallest o' smallfolk. Some o' us were born 'ere. Some came 'ere lookin' for a fortune. Others... just got here, by time or chance as they were. We ain't going nowhere from this 'ere shithole, that's fer sure."

"We are from far away." March said. "Like, really far away." That was easy to say. Harder was how to get across that message of we come from a train that travel the stars through to someone of this level of tech development. March was gesturing wildly for just a bit, before she gave up. "Real far away," she said at last.

"Obviously," Cheese said. "Bu' yer tongues ain't too common to me ears. Folks within two months' travel ain't talkin' like yer folks. Powder-faced pretty things from Essos ain't talkin' like yer folks. And them hairs wouldn't be so-" His eyes moved up and down from March's shoulder to the crown of her head. "-pink."

"Hey! What's wrong with pink?"

"Wha's wrong? Wha's wrong, yer ask me lass? It makes yer stick out like a sore thumb, that's wha' it does. Folk who sticks out don't last so long here in the Flea Bottom."

Dan Heng pressed his lips. "Well noted."

"But 'ey, it ain't me place to poke me nose into yer business. Yer come from where yer came from, that's all I needa know. Yer folks made me a pair o' boots richer, I owe yer folks an answer or five."

"You can begin by telling us what's going on in town," March said. "Place's so tense you can clip it with a dull sword!"

"'Course finks' tense," Cheese said said. "'is Grace, the Sev'n bless 'im, King Vis'rys ain't got so long for this 'ere world."

March's eyes were slowly widening while Stelle searched – desperately – for some mildly acceptable thing to say. She came up blank, and as per usual said the first thing to come to mind. "And who would succeed him?"

"Now that's the question to get yer sum'where dark an' rotten, to be-" Cheese's eyeballs looked like they were dancing. "-questioned sharply – that's how them lords and ladies call it." Stelle felt March and Dan Heng's stares burn holes through her from either side. "But I'll tell yer somesuch. I'm what they call a ratcatcher. Go all sorts of places, hear all sorts of stories, so much I forget what and where." He winked at Dan Heng. "Perraps a little sumfinks to jog that memory, no?"

"You are just trying to scam us now," Stelle said. Apparently her sleepy face – not helped by that so-called ale – didn't do much to boost her scary-factor.

"Yer folks can't blame a honest ratcatcher for forgettin' little things he oughta not care to remember, no?"

Dan Heng sighed. "Here," he said, and pulled off a pair of Musketeer's coarse leather gloves. "To go with the boots." It still smelled like oiled polish. Dan Heng took very good care of the team's relics.

Cheese blinked, and his head slowly nodded. He picked up the two gloves, put one in his pocket, the other on his hand. It was a little too large for the little man. Then he tucked it away too. "Fine-looking leather yer got there," he said, and rubbed his palms. "Now, I fergot yer question. Wha's it yer want to ask again?"

"Actually," Dan Heng said. "That question again. Something isn't right with the succession, is it?"

Stelle caught the man's eyes darting to one corner of the tavern, then another, ostensibly to watch out for ears in the wall.

"We'd appreciate it if you'd answer in a way that wouldn't get us in trouble," March added.

"Aye, sure thing." Cheese made a show of lowering his voice, and in turn lowered his head. "Lemme tell yer a fairy tale, nothin' to do with our dim, sad life," he said. "Once upon a time, there lived this nice King, who had this nice Princess and this nice brother-Prince. The good King's wife died birthing his heir, cruddy luck she'd got there, so he wed another, and had with her-" He raised one finger, "not one-" Then another. "not two, oh no no no-" Then another. "but three sons, an' a daughter too, but we ain't talkin' about 'er. Now who, the Sev'n bless 'em, oughta take the throne?"

"The nice Princess!" March exclaimed.

"Oh? That be treason talk these days, mind yer tongue, question sharply, yer heard it!" Cheese tossed a coin and caught it on the back of his hand. "Her good men's outta town, the lotta 'em, if yer know wha' I mean. Tho' not all of 'em, last I heard. Now the oldest of 'em royal lads, named Aegon, too, like that late Grace who took the whole realm by force, he's like to be next in line, tho' he's another tale fer another time-."

Stelle's head was spinning and it was not all about the ale. Bronya might have had a rough ride, but at least her succession was never in doubt. Stelle thought walking up to that Egg prince and tell him what she told Bronya ("You should be the next Supreme Guardian," she had said, and was darned proud of her sharp wit at the time, too!) would have been a profoundly bad idea.

"What do we need to know?" Dan Heng said.

"To not support the wrong people," Stelle added.

"Ain't our place to suppor' or not suppor'," Cheese said. "'Ere's some pointers. Her Grace the Princess takes the color black. His Grace the Prince Aegon takes the color green, af'er his Mum's House's war-banner." He looked at Dan Heng's threads. "Word o' advise, mate, wear yer cloth wisely, Them mighta think yer Prince Aegon's suppor'er."

"Just how bad are things?" March asked.

"Nothin's too bad," Cheese said. "Tha's what we tell ev'ryone-"

"And the stuff you don't tell everyone?" Dan Heng asked.

"Too much of 'em," Cheese said. "Too much dangerous stuff, if yer ask me. B' if yer still want in, it'd cost yer some."

Stelle folded her arms. "Not even being subtle any more, are we?"

The man flashed his teeth. Poorly kept, uneven teeth. "Good hones' folk's got their tongue cut out fer less." Which was to say, no bargaining.

March and Stelle stared at each other, then back at Dan Heng. With a sigh the More Mature Trailblazer produced an article of cloth folded into a neat square: a Wild Wheat Musketeer's hunting shawl, in all of its embroidered glory. "Here," he said. "Should fetch you a good price."

"Tha' it does, it does," said the little man. He folded up the shawl, after taking measurements of the patterns with his fingertips, and stuffed it inside his vest. Then he coughed, and washed the bile down with a mouthful of swill. "Yer didna hear it from me, but the realm's just walkin' into war. The dear Princess 'Nyra has a good bunch o' nobles, all rich and fine folks all, suppor'in' her. Good Prince Aegon's got another bunch, and 'em all hate one another like the dam'ed pox they do. Old Vissus oughta 'ave fix'd 'em unruly sons and daughters up good while he could've, now he's wavin' hullo to the Stranger..."

"And if we wanted to find someone to discuss... matters of importance," Dan Heng said, "who should we find?"

"Best choice would've been the good Lor' Fleabo'om Prince Daemon himself," Cheese said. "Though yer outta luck. Las' I hear he's off in Dragon-stone, makin' more royal lads and lasses with his niece-wife the Princess."

"Hold on, niece-wife?" March asked.

"Yes, niece-wife. Doesn't sound easy on th' ears, till yer get used to it. Thought yer folks shoulda know about it."

March's lips were twitching. "W-w-we told you we're not from-"

"Never mind that," Dan Heng said. "Straight to the point, please."

"At yer service," Cheese said with a mocking bow. "Well, 'is Grace the late King, the one before this one, 'ad this idea. Since the royal family has dragons-"

March gasped. "They have dragons?" she said, and Dan Heng tapped her on the shoulder before she could say anything else.

"Just assume we don't know anything and go on," Dan Heng said.

Cheese shrugged. "Righ' you are," he said. "Where wa' I? Now since the royal House has dragons, he said," He cleared his voice, and made an admirable change in tone. "we are closer to gods than smallfolks, and the rules of men don't apply to us. So their sis, and their aunts, and nieces, and such likes, are open for the fuckin'."

Silence. Absolute silence. Brutal, quivering silence. Stelle thought the look on Dan Heng and March's faces together would make for a memorable picture. She resisted the urge to draw her camera and snap.

Well, while they were still caught in the outrage, it was up to her to keep the words flowing. "There's got to be someone else we can speak to," Stelle said. She thought she had done a good job with her speech-crafting.

She had not. "Too many good folks around town there is," Cheese said. "But wha' I got in mind is good for a trade, ain't it?"

Dan Heng's lip twitched. A Musketeer's wild wheat felt hat flew into the man's lap like a frisbee. Cheese's head bobbed up and down. He put the hat on. "Finer than a lord's tailor'd silk," he said.

"There's The Worm's Own, good ol' pale-faced M'saria's place. If yer know 'er, yer know 'er." He took Dan Heng by the hand, and pulled him towards the window looking out into the street. "Tha' way. Two lef', one righ', pas' the stinkin' pigswill well. Tha's M'saria's, real shrewd woman she is, they call her Misery, ne'er to her face o' course. Got anythings yer want, takes anythings as pay. Wine. Whispers. Whores, for the lords like fer the ladies."

March made a face. "We aren't here to- to-" Her face was turning beet red.

Cheese side-eyed her, then grinned. "Then tell 'er yer ain't there fer the fuckin', 'tis that simple."

"And why would someone running that sort of establishment have any information?"

Cheese's eyes became narrow slits. "Words on th' streets, take 'em or leave 'em," he said, his voice a breathy whisper. "but M'saria used to be Prince Daemon's wom'n back in the day, before she grew old and round an' his niece started lookin' more pleasin'. Wom'n's got connections..."

"I see," Dan Heng said. "Looks like we'll be paying her a visit soon enough."

Cheese's head bobbed up and down. "Aye, an' tell 'er Ratcatcher Cheese sends his regards. In fact tell her tha' first, then tell her yer'd like to buy some tips for some wares. She'd love it."

"You still haven't answered," Stelle said. "What is a Lannister?"

The ratcatcher looked mockingly offended. "Tha's na' a trick question?" he said. "By th' Sev'n, yer got no idea what a Lannister is?" He looked like he was going to choke on his own laugh, but he managed to catch a hold of himself. "Right, yer listen up good, that's the second, m'be third most gol'-loaded House out 'ere. Castle on top a gold mine, 'tis said. Yer want gold, cosy up to 'em Lannisters, or 'em Velar'ons, can't go wrong with either." He chuckled, and wagged his finger in front of Stelle. "Yer want words, yer best learn yer noble 'ouses."

Stelle was curling her hands into fists when she felt Dan Heng's palm on her knuckle. "We'll take it under advisement. Thank you, Cheese."

Cheese contorted himself into a mocking bow. "A'ight, glad to be o' service," he said. "A las' word of advice, perraps lie low for a time till 'is Grace... goes wherever he's oughta. Things m'be goin' cruddy soon." His grin was sly and toothy. He stood up and walked towards the counter. A handful of bronze coins went from his small hands to the innkeep's counter. "And thanks fer the boots." he said, and headed towards the door.

Boots. And gloves. And hat. And shawl. Stelle would say she had no desire to do such a violent thing as grab the little guy and toss him into Herta's simulator, but Serval would make a better liar than her.

Dan Heng drew a stiff breath. At least, he looked like he would... if not for a gust of breeze blowing pigsty stench all over the street. He coughed, very lightly, but it was a cough all right. "Bless me," he said.

Stelle folded her arms. "Can I go beat that scammer up now?"

"No," Dan Heng said. He looked resigned.

"No," March said. She was pouting, puffy-cheek and all. "Not before me!"

Dan Heng folded his arms decisively, and shook his head. "Violence is last-resort only!"

"Well," Stelle said, "at least we've got some clues. Let's head to that Mysaria's place." She looked at a very dejected Dan Heng. "Hey, Dan Heng, answer truthfully, is my hair that pink?"

"No comment."