MYSARIA
When the comet came, Mysaria was alone on the streets.
She was thinking of the few threads of yarn she had just milked off one particular woman of hers in the Red Keep when the blaze of gold raced across the sky upon the Hour of the Owl. It dragged across the dark sky till it stopped most unnaturally, like a dagger drawn and thrust, but halted before it could pierce the mark's breast.
She planted her hand on the hilt of her dagger behind her cloak. Her steps quickened. A million different things played out in her head as she strode, keeping her head down. A comet was always a terrible sight – less because of what it may signify and more for what people thought it may signify. Bad enough in a peaceful time, that it would come as the King was on the Stranger's door... the rumors would be the death of them all.
Who am I lying to? She asked herself. Old Viserys must have already passed. Why else would the sounds from the Red Keep have been so mute?
But when she came to the stretch of broad street in front of her shop, she froze in place.
Three figures were loitering around that public well before her establishment: A tall man, a well-built woman, and a slender girl whose eyes shone pink beneath the moonlight.
Mysaria thought to draw her knife. Her heart sank: the three figures were armed. The tall man had with him an awl-pike; the fighting woman an oddly well-crafted club, and the girl a bow with superfluous parts attached.
"Excuse me," the bow-woman said said. "Is this Mysaria's place?"
Mysaria's first thought was panic. Someone was after her. Someone always was – many were her enemies in high places – and perhaps now they had decided this was the end of her. Her knife inched out of its scabbard.
But hardly had the blade cleared leather when she noticed something was wrong: they all looked very confused. Mysaria would know: those blinking wide open eyes – the two girls in particular – spoke of someone who knew not what they were doing, or where they were.
"Who sent you?" she asked tentatively. "What are you after?"
"We're looking for Mysaria's shop," the grey-haired club-woman said. "We were told it's right about-" Her head swayed left, and then right, and she leveled her free palm at her brows. "-here." Her blank eyes spoke measures as to her confusion.
"And why would you ask for Mysaria?"
She dared to take a stiff breath, and sized them up from top to toe. Now that the rush of the moment had subsided, she noticed how strange their clothes were. The man was dressed in a green, highly ornamented and impeccably dyed vest of a far eastern make, most likely in Yi Ti or one of their many trade-ports. The women, in turn, wore skirts too short and collars too revealing to be women of modesty, but they were not dancers or whores. The red light workers knew how to dress just revealingly enough to tantalize the gaze of potential customers; accent their curves, show just a little more skin than was acceptable, and such trick as to draw imagination rather than exhibit. These girls' skirts were short just for the sake of being short.
Now the man stepped forward. His features were distinctly Yi-Tish "We are new here," he said. "Someone told us Mysaria would be good for information."
Maybe, hoping against hope, they were not after her life. But then what? "And who is that someone?"
The three exchanged looks. The two women nodded at the man. "What is it to you?" he said.
Mysaria thought for a bit. "Well-" she began.
"I know the cliché," the grey-haired woman spoke up suddenly. "You are Mysaria, aren't you?"
That was astute. "Why, yes," she admitted. "You are talking to her. And it would be much welcome if I knew who led you to me."
"A man called Cheese who claims to be a ratcatcher," the man spoke in turn.
Mysaria quirked a brow. "Cheese, you said? Intriguing. What does he look like, then, and what did he say about me?"
"Um, small guy, dirty shirt, torn pants, balding?" the bow-gir said. "And I can't hear half his words!"
The man threw her a chiding look. "He said you buy and sell pretty much everything," he said to Mysaria, and she breathed out in some relief. That did sound like Cheese, the rascal.
"Smart fellow," she said. "Yes indeed, that sounds about right for him. And not a bad way to describe me, or-" She shot a glance at her own pleasure-house's signboard. "-my establishment."
"So you are Mysaria," the man said. He turned toward the direction she pointed and found the sign. "And this is your-"
"Yes, I do run a house of pleasure, among other things," she said, rearing her head at the red-glassed oil lamp hung on a chain upon her establishment's sign. She looked at the two girls to find the bow-girl wincing outrageously. The other girl just looked more confused. "It is flattering to know my reputation does spread far and wide."
She had convinced herself now, the three strangers were most likely not after her life. No assassin would be so lacking in streetwise... or discretion. Good. Time to think of something more profitable.
"Could you answer some questions?" the man asked.
"Depends," she said. "What would I get in return?"
"We have things to give in exchange for information."
Mysaria quirked her brow. "Oh? Wanting to cut a deal, I see?" She thought for a little, then examined the trio as much as she could under that pale moonlight. In the end, her curiosity won over her caution. "In that case, why don't you come in?"
The trio let her go past, and she led them through the thick-timbered door of her establishment. She had made some effort to keep her place clean, but she was still welcomed with an overwhelming smell of sweat, of unwashed hair, of strong ale and brown stew, and a distinct cheap perfume that clashed heavily with everything else. The man and the bow-girl wrinkled their noses. The club-wielding girl was completely unfazed.
The hour was late – such that the business of the flesh had largely wound down. There were still a few patrons about in the common room. Three Rivermen smelling vaguely of fish drinking swill over backgammon. A sellsword with a girl on his lap and a dagger on his hip. A drunk Reachmen staggering about the empty space, singing The Dornishman's Wife messily.
Mysaria made her way cross the common to the stairwell, and waited for the trio to catch up. First came the bow-girl – whose bow had now entirely vanished. She dodged the drunken Reachman reaching out for her bosom – mistaking her for a whore probably, and glided lithely through the gap between two tables. The sleepy girl was less agile, but her club was in her hand and that convinced the more unruly patrons rather quickly. The man kept his hands to himself at all times – in fact he was clutching himself like a shell. His spear, too, had also curiously disappeared.
Having cleared the course, the pink-haired bow-girl wiped the hem of her skirt of (imaginary) grime. "Does this place have to be that crowded?" she said.
Mysaria chuckled. "Crowded?" she said. "You mock me, my lass. You don't know crowded before you'd seen a winesink the day His Grace decreed that all taverns serve for free, for Her Grace the Queen was about to go into labor for her baby prince's birth." That had not ended well for everyone concerned, including her once-dear Prince Daemon, but they didn't have to know that.
She hooked her finger at them, and beckoned them follow her.
She took them up the flight of stone-and-mortar stairs to the first floor. They were greeted with the telltale noises of couples making merry, muffled as they were their doors. "Ignore them," she said to the two girls. This was not their world, obviously.
They hurried up another staircase to the second floor. It was quiet here, and less stuffy. This was where Mysaria had the roomier suites for wealthier patrons, and given the state of everything those rooms were largely empty at this time, but for Fat Malla, one of her establishment's old whores now relegated to cooking and cleaning, wearing her dirty apron and wielding her dusty broom.
"All here? Good." She nodded at her old sister-in-trade. "Could you please keep the doors closed, I need some good quiet."
At the back of it all was a thick oaken door shod with bronze: this was her own quarters. Mysaria opened the door and led the three guests in.
One would think Mysaria had made her own quarters a mockery of a lord's solar. In a way it was: There was a table and chair for the host, but neither books nor quills. There were goblets of fine gold, but mismatched and meant to serve cheap wines. There were fine paintings, but embedded with instruments to open up into her secret escape and various other places of interest. There was a Myrish carpet, but long worn out and not meant to show off wealth or taste in any way. There was a long wardrobe where lords would have shelves filled with prized toys: inside were Mysaria's many costumes she had donned as a dancer, now lying in wait till she would rent them out to a younger, more shapely sister of the trade in need. There was a long bench barring the stretch between the door and her table, lined with feathered pillows: this was where she would entertain someone specifically after her, in all senses of the word "entertain". It had not been used for some year, and was there only for sentimental purposes now.
The trio, one after another, filtered into the room. They marched between the bench and the wall in single file, and brought themselves before her table. She slouched down on her chair behind it, and imagined herself, for a brief moment, a lord of considerable power holding an audience with a crowd of smallfolk petitioning.
"All right, all right," she said. "Perhaps some introductions are in order, for courtesy's sake?"
The three travelers exchanged looks. Finally the man, stared upon by both girls, spoke first. "We are travelers from afar, that is all we can say at this time. I am Dan Heng." His sharp eyes switched to the two girls in turn. "Stelle, and March the Seventh."
It spoke measures as to the strangeness of their very name that the man's thoroughly foreign name was the most familiar to Mysaria at all. "Dan Heng, you said? So my eyes haven't gone quite off yet. You're from Yi Ti most likely."
She didn't expect the man to blink in more confusion. "Yi Ti? I'm afraid you're mistaken. I've never heard of it."
"Oh, please, don't play me for a fool," Mysaria said. "I've been to many, many places beyond the shores, and met many folks – perfumed highborns and shithole-diving simpletons alike. Your earrings and the hems of your dress are quite distinctly Yi Ti.
There was a flash in his eyes. "And how close is distinctly?" he said.
"Jade with red tussels, long vests folded over, not laced, and such likes, patterned after celestial beasts of their own imagining," Mysaria said. "And that is some fine jewelry if I have to say so myself." She eyed his nice ear-piece that very nicely complimented his earlobes. And when he caught her gaze, she nodded approvingly. "If I am to judge a man by his jewelries – on his fingers, not his crotch, I mean – you are better dressed than most of the moneyed merchants running the Myrish markets. If not for your confused loitering out here in the Flea Bottom I'd say you are nobility of one sort or another, or a tremendously wealthy magnate from that part of Essos. Which is why I am entertaining you here. It's a pity that I am old, now, and no longer desire a rich young moneyed man as such."
The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. "Obviously."
But the man did not pay anything any attention, for just that one moment. He drew a stiff breath.
His eyes widened, and then narrowed, till it was sharp as a sword. Then he recited a string of words that were vaguely Yi Tish, but she could only recognize a fifth of them – if even that. And it wasn't about her linguistic skills or lack thereof: she could communicate with the odd Essosi merchant traveling the continent speaking the Tongue of Jade just fine.
"Lan Zhi Xian Zhou Luo Fu? Wei She-" she repeated, and exasperatedly switched back to the Common tongue. "No, doesn't ring a bell, sorry."
"My point exactly," Dan Heng said. "You are mistaken. Whatever this Yi Ti place is, I have nothing to do with it."
And what could Mysaria do but admit defeat? "Very well," she said. "Next matter of business, then?"
The man's gaze relaxed somewhat. And that seemed to be the end of that.
"Right. You said Cheese told you to meet me? That I buy and sell everything?"
"Yes," Dan Heng said. "We've come... here, to search for something, and to do so we need to get in touch with the people in charge."
"Ah, yes, social-climbing, the favorite past-time of travelers, merchants, hawkers, sell-swords and freeriders. That much seems universal, doesn't it?"
"Hey!" pink-haired March the Seventh (why is that even a name? Mysaria thought) exclaimed. "We're not-"
But Dan Heng raised his arm and blocked her. "We... realized," he said instead, "it may be harder than we expected."
"Of course it is," Mysaria said. "The lords and ladies of Westeros – or Essos for that matter – very much mislike common smallfolk barging into their presence, to put it mildly."
"That is why I thought perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement." the man said. "For now all we want is three beds and some lead to get into contact with someone in charge-"
"And perchance," Mysaria said, "you are not going to tell me why you wish to do so?"
"You thought right," Dan Heng said, and his face turned more stone-like.
"That would be none of my business, yes," Mysaria said. "But two things. One, the noble lords and ladies would be more willing to give you the time of day if I could feed them some yarn as to what you desire. And two, what is in it for me – if only for the beds and breakfast you desire?"
March put a fingertip on her cheek. "We can trade you some of the stuff we gave that Cheese guy,"
"Well why don't you say so from the beginning?" Mysaria said. "Cheese did have the right idea. I do buy and sell things, mostly from those strapped for cash with a tab too large. I do hope you haven't paid him overly much for the information. If he were at all capable with his sword-arm he'd have made for a shrewd sellsword bargaining his own contract."
"We had to give him some of our..."
"... relics," said the grey-haired girl.
"Relics? For Cheese, the ratcatcher? The fellow whose only saving grace is his small size?"
Dan Heng crossed his arms. "It was all we had," he said at last, "in lieu of the local currency."
"Let me see what you have," she said.
She thought she saw some sort of light, and that the items weren't pulled out of their clothes, but rather appeared from thin air into their grip. Intriguing, she thought, but then again she knew folks who could pull off more impressive parlor tricks back in her days as a performer.
To her surprise, she saw an assortment of fine craftmanship.
Several different styles of boots and shawls. Gloves and rings, brocaded or crusted with shiny stones or both. A cap, a hat and a knightly casque. And a dozen different pieces of fine jewelry. Mysaria thought she had been past avarice for pretty things and curious toys. She was wrong.
They let the curios sit on her table for a time, as if to tempt and taunt her. Then they took back their inventory, one after another, and the (very precious) wares fell back into the light from which they came.
Mysaria cleared her throat. "Sympathies, my friends," she said, "but you have been had. The yarn Cheese sold you is worth maybe a couple groats. Bring goods like this down to the Street of Silk and the more discerning cloth-merchants would easily cough up a gold dragon."
She was not, of course, saying all there was to it.
"Will you pay us a gold dragon?"
"Gladly, and then some," she said. She tucked her hand into her vest, fished out the one gold dragon she had on her person, and one single stag and star each. She flipped them, one after the other, in front of the Yi Tish man. "One gold dragon, and one silver stag, and one copper star. The first for pay, the second for change, the third for luck. Lest you get duped again – which will not do at all if you are to do me any good. And now you will let me choose what I want out of your wares, won't you?"
Dan Heng eyed his two female companions, and whispered something into their ears. He was less discrete than he thought: Mysaria could easily hear some of his words: "green" and "two-stars".
… that was informative. No, no it definitely wasn't.
But for their part they did uphold their end of the deal. Again they put some wares on the table, with the same parlor trick they had. Mysaria looked long at the veritable selection before her. She lifted this up, felt that up her skin, and only stopped short of biting a gold-looking piece to check if it was real gold.
She chose the hairstick of carven withered twig bound to gilt flower-buds and colored tassels. She picked up the silver ring engraved with strange patterns and set with a cloudy redstone. She eyed the chain wrought into the shape of dazzling stars and the large gem set into it that engulfed a sculpture that looked like a tall bridge arch. Her heart of hearts recalled the many gifts Daemon had given her back in the day. She drew a long breath, and picked up them both.
Mysaria licked her lips. The strangers knew nothing about the trade that went on in the open market as in the hushed underground fencers of stolen goods, and the price they would have given out for such masterwrought craft. And to a lovelorn lord too eager to please his lovely wife or lovelier mistress they might well be beyond price. That faceted sphere bearing that indescribable shape, that little curious thing alone could get her as much as a lord was willing to pay out for a half-dozen sellswords' service and lives likely, and that was if the fencer thought it stolen (and thus worth less).
There was nothing stopping her asking for even more in return for that one gold dragon. Nothing but her scruples. But no, she swallowed. She had got to show these wealthy-but-daft fellows she was trustworthy to some degree. "This would make a fair trade," she declared, and praised herself for her moderation in greed. "For the coins, and for a set of – how many rooms would you want again?"
The white-haired girl blinked. "Two," she said without thinking. Her two companions looked shocked.
"Three," Dan Heng said, and Mysaria nodded. Not like there would be too many staying overnight in this sort of tension overwhelming King's Landing, would there? "And we would like some information on this land of..." he paused. "You call it Westeros?"
"Ah yes, Westeros, our hope, our dream, and the utter failure of such likes," Mysaria said. "Most certainly, I do like to think myself more knowledgeable than most. What would you like to know?"
"From the beginning, will you?" he said. "Treat us like we are five and know nothing."
"Very well," she said. "At any rate the night is long and today does not look like a particularly exciting day – shall we say."
So she fed them as they wanted: all that an outsider might wish to know about the Targaryens and the current order of the day. She told them of the glory that was the Old King's reign, who made a (largely) divided realm freshly bathed in flames into a (mostly) united kingdom wreathed in silks. She spoke at some length of His Grace Viserys First of His Name, the Peaceful (to his supporters) and the Jolly (to his detractors). She told them of the rising tension between Princess and Queen (here she couldn't resist putting a few not-so-flattering words in, at Her Grace the Crown Princess' expense), and how things might boil over soon, now that the King was bedridden and about to pass most likely.
Dan Heng was a stoic listener. He kept his ears open, so Mysaria saw, and only nodded at important things. The girl March the Seventh was the complete opposite. She wow'd at the tale of Aegon's conquest, bristled at Maegor's ill dealings, giggled at the bits about King Jaehaerys' rule (and he was, Mysaria must admit, a finer example of that House Targaryen). And when she heard of the Great Council and how Rhaenys became The Queen who Never Was, she was visibly mad.
White-haired, club-wielding Stelle was thoroughly inattentive. If Mysaria weren't confident with her skill as a tavern-tested story-teller, she might have been disheartened by the girl's constant yawning.
"-And so the court is cloven clean in half, the one part wearing the Princess' color, and the other the Queen's." she concluded. "So while the mighty lords are working their differences out, the smallfolk hold their breath until either side claims indisputable victory."
"I see," Dan Heng said. He let his eyelids fall. "That is an unfortunate state of affairs."
"Truly," Mysaria said. "But for the enterprising, if I may say, it's an opportunity. There's a word of vulgar wisdom passed around second sons and baseborn witty folks. Chaos is a ladder." She surveyed the travelers' faces. They were looking at one another, then back at her with expectation. Good. "There is no better way to win yourself a pass to the top than do some sort of good work to the folks that matter."
"You've done your share, haven't you?" the sleepy-looking grey-haired girl said.
Mysaria flashed a smile. "Certainly, that much is beyond denial," she said. "His Grace Prince Daemon of House Targaryen and I do go a long way back – pray do not give me that look, that much is common knowledge, as is the fact that I was a thorn in His Grace the King's eyes for quite a time."
"You were enemies?" Stoic Dan Heng said.
"You were lovers?" Excited March the Seventh said.
"You cheated him out of something?" Sleepy Stelle said.
Mysaria laughed. "Correct, wrong, correct but only in a certain light, in no particular order. But that is enough about me. What about you? In fact I can hardly think of a better time for anyone to get into his good graces than right about now, if you have something to offer: dragons of either kind, good fighting men, or an eye to pierce the darkness."
Stelle regarded her close. "You are a better recruiter than you are an establishment owner," she said.
"A compliment of the highest order it is," Mysaria said. "In fact, there is something you could do for me. It could be the start of something... useful to both of us."
March the Seventh grumbled. "Oh, of course we are running errands again!"
"Helping people is my passion," Stelle said. If it was spoken in irony, she was a right master. Her eyes were like those of dead fish floating upon the Rush on a sour day.
"Do not worry, I will let you know I do run a house reputable in some sort of way," Mysaria said. "It's a simple trade. You scratch my back, I scratch yours."
"Let's hear it," Dan Heng said.
"There's a certain... particularly appalling establishment. Not to ruin the surprise of an explorer, or a traveler from so far away, like you said you are, but you will know what it is when you see it," She hid her disgust behind her smile. "I would much like it done away with, but alas, what am I but an aging, wrinkling brothel madame, hardly able to pay off unsavory Goldcloaks accosting her?"
The white-haired hothead leaned back with a sniff. "Is this not a ploy to get rid of the competition?"
Mysaria smirked. "Getting rid of the competition?" she said. "There are so many whores in this city to compete against. I would have to murder as many as Aegon the Conqueror himself, and put twice as many to ruin, if I wanted any sort of getting rid of the competition."
"What exactly do you want us to do?"
"I will give you an address. You will go there, if you will, and see if you could find a way to inconvenience their little operation. Or expose them to the lawful-minded people in this way or that. I do not care so much about the details, as long as something is done about this thoroughly disgusting thing."
"And for that you wouldn't tell us what this disgusting thing even is?"
"You know what, I actually don't need to. I'll do one better. I'll give you the exact location," Mysaria said.
"You just don't want anyone to link this business back to you if it goes wrong," Stelle accused.
"I might be," Mysaria said. "Like I said, it is up to you. But if you do it, there's quite a bit in it for you. Not least being... a good word to the folk that matter, of how reliable and honorable you are. And as a show of goodwill, I'll give you something else – If, or when, you check out the place I tell you to, if you see a burly fellow with a funny-looking mustache, guarding a little white-haired, purple-eyed squirrel, you go the other way."
Yes, because as much as she wanted to see Aegon the Wastrel's face caved in, that wouldn't do her new friends any good, would it?
