Doran, the self-styled Bastard of Dorne, was a lean man of middle years. A rough spun cloak, set over robes of amber satin, protected him from the snow, a permanent grin held dominion over his pock-marked face. His dark hair and darker eyes spoke for his Rhoynar heritage, his strut a declaration of supreme confidence.

Merwyn had been expecting soldiers in the Great Hall, perhaps those donning cloaks of Lannister red, or, at the very least, the gold of the City Watch, despite Cersei's trepidations. Instead, when he'd reached that contorted ruination they called the Iron Throne, he'd found only a Dornishman; one claiming to head-up a contingent of sellswords, four-strong, hired by the Queen herself to track the Sons of Balerion. Merwyn had wondered if it were an insult, to be thrown in with common cut-throats. After acquainting himself with Doran, however, he'd thought better of it. This is no insult. It's a trial.

In duty's name, Merwyn had swallowed any protests and left the Red Keep in the company of Doran the Bastard alone. He was an intriguing paradox, the Dornishman. His gait was that of a seasoned fighter, yet Merwyn saw no sword at his hip; his task was to hunt murderers through a labyrinth of lies, the price of failure as high as any harm he might suffer at the hands of his enemies, yet he wore a wholesome smile.

"The snow makes your city half-beautiful, Ser Merwyn," Doran chortled, as the pair made their way down Aegon's High Hill. Some of his words were stretched, others rolled, as was common with the Dornish drawl.

It's not my city, Merwyn thought, though he could not counter Doran's words. A soft bed of white had blanketed King's Landing, burying its sores, concealing many of its sins. The snow did a good job of affording the city a richness it didn't deserve. Even the rubble of the Great Sept of Baelor was lent dignity by winter's canvas. "That it does, Doran."

"Quite the shame it precedes terrors of the night."

"Quite," Merwyn replied.

"Do you believe the whispers?"

Of giants and White Walkers and dead men risen? Merwyn had not believed them. Not until his younger brother, Tymon, an honourable recruit of the Night's Watch himself, had dispatched a raven to Highbush from Castle Black, some moons ago, detailing what he'd seen with his own eyes. Now, Merwyn preferred to think about only what he could affect. "Words are wind. You said you knew where we might begin?"

Doran chuckled. "Something like that. The City Watch found another one at dawn this morning. Pyred and burned alive, same as the rest. He was a smith's apprentice, noble blood on his father's side."

"A bastard?"

"Just so. My friends are talking to the smith now. My apologies, Ser Merwyn, they didn't want to risk losing the scent."

"Smith? The Street of Steel, then?"

"I should think so."

Merwyn pondered as they walked. It was said that half of a million people called King's Landing home. How are we to root out a handful of separatists, in a city that owns almost as many rats that walk on two legs as do on four?

By the time they had reached the Hook, the road that would take them from the base of Aegon's High Hill to where they could join the Street of Steel from Fishmonger's Square, Merwyn found himself studying every broke-backed peasant and scurrying tradesman he passed. His armour and white cloak drew looks from any and all, as was to be expected, but the accessories that marked him for Queensguard were of small comfort. Merwyn had spent his years honing himself with sword and lance; had grown to battle the enemy in front of him, not the one he couldn't see. Perhaps Doran and his men can spare my misgivings. "How is it that you came to the Queen's attention?" Merwyn asked, keen to learn more of the Dornishman and his crew.

"I forever have my ear to the ground, Ser Merwyn. The trick of my trade lies in knowing what people want, when they want it. The Queen needs hunters ... and so here we are."

"A hunter who wears no sword?"

Doran's dark eyes twinkled as he regarded Merwyn. "Why clash with a man at his front, when you can put a dirk in his back?"

"Perhaps honour is a less valuable token in Dorne?" Merwyn replied.

Doran's laugh was loud and aggressive. "Perhaps indeed. Do not mistake me, though, you get what you pay for when you hire me and mine. To a man we would give our lives for our cause."

Give your lives for the promise of coin, more like. Merwyn remained silent, his boots instrumenting the crunch of snow.

"I hope you don't mind walking in all that heavy armour, Ser Merwyn, Visenya's Hill is hardly kind on aching legs."

Merwyn found himself bristling. He had decided he didn't like the Bastard's tone. "How far on the Street of Steel must we go?"

"Gods forgive me, I should have said. To the very top, Ser Merwyn. The apprentice served Tobho Mott."

#

Merwyn knew Tobho Mott to be a blacksmith of unparalleled skill within the Seven Kingdoms. The Qohorik armourer knew the secrets of working Valyrian swords, and so it was no wonder his shop summitted the Street of Steel. When Merwyn and Doran arrived, however, the double doors to the establishment, intricately carved ebony and weirwood, were barred shut from the inside. Merwyn could hear the poundings from the other shops, the ringings of toiling smiths plying their trade with the day still early. He frowned. "You said your men were already here, Doran?"

"I did," the Bastard replied, gazing to the upper stories of timber and plaster towering over the street. "They'll be here."

"Are your men specters?" Merwyn said, curtly. He motioned to the two stone knights standing sentinel either side of the doors. He only wished they were real.

"Specters they are not, Ser Merwyn. But they do know that Tobho Mott's barn is behind his shop." The Dornishman flashed a grin and beckoned Merwyn follow him as he rounded the side of Tobho's abode.

No sooner had Merwyn done the same, did he hear a muffled scream. He went fast on Doran's heels, along the side of the building and into the alley that separated it from a cavernous stone structure. Tobho's workshop.

Merwyn knew Tobho by word of mouth; knew that he was a stout, stubborn Qohorik with very little hair and a frame that held true to his trade. It alarmed him to see the man pinned to the ground by his huge arms, a coat of black velvet drawn up to his chin and a glowing red brand hovering, precariously, above the soft flesh of his exposed stomach. On the other end of the brand was a wiry Tyroshi, black hair dyed with streaks of cobalt blue and two braided points of beard to match. His head whipped around upon hearing Merwyn's boots.

Merwyn put his hand to Thorn's hilt, incredulous to find Doran soaking up the scene with a look of wry amusement on his face. "In the name of Queen Cersei, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, I demand you unhand that man and explain this defilement."

The Tyroshi's eyes flitted to Doran and he stepped away from Tobho. The two holding down the smith's arms did the same. Merwyn assessed their respective threats quickly and decided the man to Tobho's right worthier of his attention. He was past his best, for sure, but broad of chest and encased in plate armour half as old as he was, his face warmed with a salt-and-pepper beard. A blade rested at his hip, but he made no move to retrieve it. A hedge knight, I'd bet this white cloak.

"Ser Merwyn, it seems they were eager to begin without us."

Merwyn allowed his gaze to shift to Doran. The Dornishman was regarding the men with familiarity. Friends. These are his men.

"The Bastard of Dorne. Was wondering when you would show." The speaker was neither the Tyroshi, nor the knight, but the third. He was rake-thin, pointed of face; gaunt in all the ways a man wishes not to be. A mop of brown hair swept about his ears, his body youthful, awkward and terribly bony beneath a stained jerkin and a tunic of boiled leather. "And who be this?"

"Ser Merwyn Bramble, of the Queensguard," Doran replied. "Ser Merwyn ... Dirk the Cute."

The boy spat in distaste. "I don't like knights. Excepting Harys here," he said, thumbing to the older man, "they can burn in seven hells. What you doing with him?"

"The Queen requested he join us. It appears she doesn't trust in us alone."

"Well then, grab a leg, Ser, the smith's about to sing us a song." He lunged for Tobho Mott again.

Merwyn stepped forward. "Lay not one finger on him." He injected bite into his voice; the very same bite as coursed through his veins. This is what comes of sellswords and free rein.

Dirk looked from Merwyn to Doran, wide-eyed. "I'd suggest holding that tongue, Ser. You ain't in the Red Keep now."

Merwyn flexed his fingers. "Even so, my words carry the weight of the Iron Throne. Leave off the blacksmith."

Dirk the Cute offered a smirk. "And if I don't?"

Merwyn felt a sudden warmth rush to his head. Gods, don't be foolish, boy.

Dirk stepped forward into the alley, his hands on his belt. Merwyn had already noted the two blades strapped there. "See, this is why I don't like knights. Think they knows everything. Fuck off back to the Red Keep and let us get to work."

"Dirk," Merwyn heard Doran warn.

"Bastard, you know I ain't the sort to grovel up to no one. He can help, or he can suck on Cersei's tit."

Merwyn felt his eyes flare. "Take one more step, boy, and it'll be your last."

Dirk grimaced, fingers curling around his daggers. "Oh, Ser, you scare me so." His right foot advanced, ever so slightly.

Thorn came free of its sheath in one screaming instant and opened Dirk the Cute from right hip to left shoulder. The boy barely had time to wail before Merwyn had forced Thorn through his open mouth, punching several teeth out in the process, erupting the blade in a shower of splendid crimson from the back of Dirk's head. He choked on death as he dropped to his knees. Merwyn ripped Thorn back and turned, expecting to have to deal with Doran.

The Bastard, however, had barely altered his expression. His eyebrows were raised, his outstretched palm flat and seeking peace.

"Does any man here wish to quarrel me further?" Merwyn breathed, consuming Doran and the others with a wolfish glare.

"I ... I guess that's more coin for us," Doran said, finally. "Ser Merwyn, this is Noro Fleetfoot and Ser Harys the Daring." He pointed to the Tyroshi and the older knight, both had eyes only for Dirk's twitching corpse.

"Well met," Merwyn said, wiping Thorn on Dirk's tunic. "Now, let's see if Master Mott can't simply tell us what he knows."