Tobho Mott had worked long enough in King's Landing to boast a resolve near strong as the steel he worked. No sooner had Merwyn ordered Ser Harys and Noro Fleetfoot to remove Dirk the Cute's body, did the smith regain enough composure to be of use.

"I tried to tell them they were waisting their breath," Tobho said, "you are too, if this is about the boy. His father paid his apprentice fee and he was as useful with a hammer as the serving girl I keep in the house. I can't profess to know much more than that."

"His name?" Merwyn asked. He held his helm beneath his arm, the heat of the forges an uncomfortable distraction.

"Gerrick. Or, at least, that's the name he gave. A quiet boy, in truth, he deserved little and less of what came of him. They say he was burned alive?" The smith permitted a shudder.

Merwyn nodded, solemnly. "And his father?"

"I never met him. A retainer came with the boy. Two moons ago, or near enough as to make no matter. He had the right amount of coin and that was that. It's not my place to beg questions, only to worship my craft."

Merwyn glanced about the workshop, unsure what more he should ask. Ser Harys was grunting behind him; he and Noro shifting Dirk the Cute.

"Did he have any friends?" Doran enquired. The Dornishman was entertaining himself with the many instruments about Tobho's shop. He held aloft a steel ingot, examining it as though it were unfamiliar as a dragon egg.

"Smithings a lonely business. He had what I permitted him. That is to say a hammer, his arm, and not enough sense to wield the pair in harmony."

Doran put the ingot down. "And when he wasn't working?"

"He slept, as any sane man does after a day spent over my forges. Gods only know how he had energy for whores."

"Whores?" Merwyn asked.

"Just so. I put an end to it when I found out, but he was one for the brothels, in the beginning."

"Which one?" Doran asked, eyes sparking to life.

Tobho shrugged his thick shoulders. "One of them? All of them? As I said, I'm not one for begging questions. They might recall Gerrik if you ask around, though. The boy had a wicked scar on his right cheek."

The Street of Silk, then, Merwyn thought, distastefully. "My thanks, Master Mott. I'll send lads to collect the body. Would that I could offer more."

Tobho cast his eyes to Merwyn's hip. "You gave me all the justice I require. You carry Valyrian steel?"

Merwyn followed Tobho's gaze. It was little wonder that the Qohorik had taken note of Thorn. The ancestral sword of House Bramble was as fine a work as Merwyn himself had ever seen. Imbued with a dark, shrouded hue, it had claimed so many men as to be worthy of note alongside such fabled blades as Dawn and Blackfyre. Thorn deserved a place amongst a royal guard, perhaps more so even than Merwyn himself.

"You will permit me to appreciate the irony," Tobho added, "the boy, Gerrik, harboured a burning passion for Valyrian swords. There are so few of them left in the Seven Kingdoms."

"True enough," Merwyn agreed. He could not pretend to know the origins of Thorn; only that the blade had served his family as far back as Maester Seldan and his scrolls had ever cared to go.

A look of contemplation suddenly stole across Tobho's face, the billows of inner-thought fueling a hidden fire. "Forgive me for asking, Ser, but you haven't yourself, per chance, frequented the Street of Silk of late, have you?"

Merwyn couldn't prevent the scowl that formed. "If you mean to insult me, Master Mott, Gods know you've done fine work."

Tobho shook his head quickly. "You mistake me. Only, now I consider it, Gerrik said something about meeting a man who carried Valyrian steel. He asked me if I might have worked it, you see."

"Where?" Doran asked the question before Merwyn could.

"Well, as it happens ... on the Street of Silk." Somewhat absently, Tobho turned his attention back to Thorn. "But then ... no, it couldn't be the same. I see your pommel is a rose flower."

Merwyn exchanged a bewildered glance with Doran. "And the other?"

"A dragon's head."

#

"Say what you will of Dirk the Cute, but even he had more between the ears," Doran said, the irksome glow of a sardonic smile returned to his lips, as they walked in the shadow of the old Dragonpit.

"Master Mott's the finest smith in the Seven Kingdoms," Merwyn countered, "he would care little for your witticisms." Even so, how had he, an armourer, missed the significance of a dragon's head?

"Likely true," Doran chirped, "but Ser Harys and Noro love them so."

His jape inspired a laugh from Ser Harys. Neither the knight nor the Tyroshi had shown concern for the manner in which Merwyn had treated with Dirk. Ser Harys had at least hinted at irritation when Merwyn had ordered the corpse be moved to a barrel for the time being, but Noro, on the other hand, had merely shrugged, setting about his task with cold indifference. Merwyn had known their types before. In the hills that flanked Highbush, as many bandits had sought refuge as sellswords had offered to hunt them. Countless times had Merwyn sat council with his father, Lord Mothos, and the neighbouring Lord Elwyck, of Sarsfield, listening to men of the hedge petition for their coin in return for service.

When they reached the Street of Silk, Merwyn reasoned that their search might not be as hopeless as he had reckoned. Only two brothels had their doors open for business; the others held firmly shut in the face of winter's cavalry. The road went tight, far more so than the Street of Steel had. Many of the buildings were grey and sullen; any lustful cheer they might have maintained had receded with the summer sun.

"Chatayah's seems an appropriate place to start. They say Robert Baratheon himself used to fuck there," Doran quipped, eyes at the far end of the street, towards a structure appointed with a rounded turret at one of its corners.

"You know the place?" Merwyn asked, wholly unsurprised.

"I know Alayaya and Dancy, Ser Merwyn, only too well. Perhaps Gerrik bedded one of them. Perhaps he bedded both. Shall we proceed?"

"We'll split ourselves in two," Merwyn decided aloud. "Doran, you and Noro go on. Ser Harys and I shall ask our own questions." He gestured at the other brothel, barely five doors down from where they stood. Though he would never admit it, Merwyn's body was tired from carrying his armour the breadth of King's Landing twice over.

"As you say, Ser." Doran presented a mock bow as he and Noro took off.

Merwyn chose to follow at a far slower pace, Ser Harys beside him. At least he, too, looks flushed with effort. "It does not shame you, Ser, to keep such company as Dirk the Cute and the Bastard of Dorne?"

Ser Harys offered a sour smile. "It does not shame me to fill my own belly. These are dark times, Ser; even a knight needs do what must be done." He stopped abruptly when they reached the brothel, motioning for Merwyn to lead on.

Merwyn paused, briefly, the idea of entering such a place at conflict with his ideals. He had bled for Jaime Lannister in the Whispering Wood, when Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, had played his trick; had escaped Raventree Hall after being taken as Lord Blackwood's hostage; had doggedly continued to marshal men of the west against those who opposed Lannister rule. But this? Do I so freely sully the white cloak, mere days after accepting it?

"Ser Merwyn?" Ser Harys interrupted his thoughts.

Once more, Merwyn scorned his pride. He stepped over the threshold and into a cloud of exotic spices, the house beyond concealed by a Myrish screen. Hand brushing the screen aside, he and Ser Harys advanced into a common room bedecked with tapestries of silk and bolts of exquisite fur, a light mist of perfumed smoke enchanting the eyes with serpentine swirls. A cushioned alcove was set again the far wall, though not a soul was to be found.

Another screen led from the room, and so Merwyn made for it.

"I'll look on the upper floor," he heard Ser Harys say. The old knight moved noisily to a set of stone steps that Merwyn hadn't seen. He was happy to let him go; he knew that was where men received the pleasure they paid for.

Instead, he passed through the second screen, halting only when he realised he was no longer alone. A woman stared up at him from the other side of an ivory table, a thick ledger splayed before her and an inky quill clutched in her right hand. The corners of her mouth rose in a smirk as she took Merwyn in. Her hazel eyes brightened to a vividness surpassed only by the rose red curls of hair that tumbled over her shoulders, stopping just short of the swell of her breasts. The black silk she wore parted in a way that both protected her modesty and begged allure. "It's been some years since a knight with a white cloak walked my halls," she said, voice suffused with husk.

Merwyn composed himself before replying, "I'm looking for someone."

"Aren't we all, my lord? I have girls from Pentos, Braavos, Myr and Lys; girls from Essos and the Summer Isles. If you have a taste, Ser, I can match it. Why don't we start with getting you out of-"

"That's not what I'm here for," Merwyn said suddenly, shattering the smooth spell wrought by her words.

"No? I won't tell, you know."

"I'm here after a boy. Scar on his right cheek, went by the name of Gerrik."

The woman pouted her lips. "You'll forgive me needing time to think."

"I don't have time. In the name of Qu-"

"The blacksmith's apprentice, per chance?" She asked, tone dry as to imply she knew the answer anyway.

"Yes," Merwyn spluttered, "the very same."

"You'll notice only Chatayah and I have our doors open, my lord. The wars have been kind to the Street of Steel, not so much to our Street of Silk; not now winter has come. Fewer men come each day. I remember the blacksmith's boy and his scar, though he hasn't been here in some time."

"He's dead," Merwyn told her.

"Mother have mercy. A shame; he was less than frugal with coin. I fail to see how I, or indeed any of my girls, fit in?"

"He befriended a man with a dragon's head on the hilt of his sword. That's the man I search for."

"I know of no dragon's head," the woman said, softly, "but, if he's been in here, my girls will."

Gods be good. If they can but given me a likeness.

"I would speak with them all," Merwyn said, "if you will summon them."

"Who am I to refuse a white cloak?" She smiled and rose from the table.

There came an abrupt cry from the street. Long and loud, it spoke to the part of Merwyn that had been conditioned to react to such calls. Doran.

By the time Merwyn had reached the doorway, the noises had distinguished themselves. He threw himself out onto the street, drawing Thorn and taking in the road. Ser Harys tumbled out after him, he, too, baring his blade.

"Noro gives chase, Sers, we must be quick on his heels. We smoked him out!" Doran said, pointing down the street, back towards the Dragonpit.

"Who?" Merwyn asked.

Doran's eyes gleamed. "The man with the dragon's head pommel, of course."