The stench of Flea Bottom was a physical wall—a mixture of rotting fish, human waste, and the greasy, heavy smell of boiling offal from the cookshops. Valarr had discarded his royal silks for a stained leather jerkin and a heavy woolen cloak that smelled of old wet dog. He had rubbed grease from a wagon axle into his fingernails and smudged soot beneath his eyes, transforming the handsome Prince of the Blood into just another desperate soul looking for a coin or a fight in the city's worst quarters.
Two of his personal guards, trusted men from his father's retinue who could keep their mouths shut, followed twenty paces behind, dressed as common mercenaries. They carried short swords concealed beneath their cloaks, their hands never far from the hilts.
The Fishmarket was a chaotic swelter of noise even after dark. Fishmongers shouted their prices for the day's remaining catch—sleek grey mullet, pale crabs with snapping claws, and great, ugly catfish from the rush-beds of the Rush.
Valarr found the stall Bloodraven had described: a rickety wooden structure beneath a sagging canvas awning, bearing the sign of a salted herring. A fat man with a red face and a greasy leather apron was scrubbing the wooden counter with a stiff brush, his breath coming in short, wheezing puffs.
"Garse?" Valarr asked, stepping into the light of the tallow candle that flickered on the counter.
The fat man didn't look up. "Fish is gone. Come back at dawn if you want the fresh skate. Move along."
"I don't want fish," Valarr said, dropping a silver stag onto the wet wood. It slid through the fish scales and clicked against the iron rim of Garse's bucket. "I want to talk about wax. The red kind. The kind that smells of beets."
Garse froze. The brush stopped mid-scrape. His red face turned a peculiar, pasty shade of grey, the color of a dead cod. He looked up, his small, watery eyes darting over Valarr's shoulder, searching the crowded alleyway for danger.
"I don't know nothing about no wax," Garse whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm a fishmonger. I sell what the boats bring in."
Valarr leaned over the counter, his hand coming down over the silver coin, his fingers splaying out. He made sure Garse could see the lean, hard muscle of his forearm, and the pommel of the dagger tucked into his belt.
"The men who paid you for that wax are very far away, Garse," Valarr said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal purr. "But I am right here. And the Blackwater is very deep tonight. If you don't start speaking, you're going to find out how long a fat man can float with a stone tied to his ankles."
"Please," Garse choked out, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the brush into the bucket, splashing dirty water over his boots. "They told me it was just a joke. A prank for the tourney. A lord's game!"
"Which lord?" Valarr demanded, his fingers tightening on the counter.
"I don't know his name! I swear by the Seven! He never gave it!" Garse cried, his voice rising in panic. Valarr grabbed the front of the man's greasy apron and hauled him forward, his face inches from the fishmonger's.
"Describe him," Valarr hissed. "Or I will give you a new mouth beneath your chin."
"He... he was tall," Garse stammered, tears of terror leaking down his fat cheeks. "A great knight, he looked like, but he wore a plain grey cloak. He had a scar across his left brow, shaped like a crescent moon. And... and he smelled of horses. Not city horses, but bloodstock. Fine, high-bred beasts. He had a gold ring on his pinky, with a stone black as coal."
Valarr's mind raced through the banners and retinues currently filling the outer bailey. A crescent scar. A black stone ring. Ser Quenten Ball. Fireball.
The Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep, the man who had trained Valarr's own father in the yard, the man who had been promised a place in the Kingsguard by King Daeron, only to have the promise broken when the King chose another. Fireball was a man of iron and fire, a warrior whose grievance against the Crown was a raw, open wound. If Fireball was buying wax for forged warrants, it meant the conspiracy had not just reached the gates; it was already inside the walls, training the King's own guards.
"Where is he now?" Valarr asked, his grip loosening slightly.
"He... he said he was meeting someone at the Salty Dog," Garse whimpered. "A tavern by the docks. He said the cargo from Oldtown was arriving tonight."
Valarr let go of the man, pushing him back against his fish boxes. He took the silver stag back from the counter and tossed it into the bucket of dirty water.
"If you breathe a word of this to anyone, Garse," Valarr said softly, "I won't kill you. I'll let Lord Bloodraven know you failed him. And believe me, the river is a kinder fate than his dungeons."
He turned and strode back into the crowd, signaling his two guards to follow. The game of shadows was getting warmer, and the scent of treason was leading straight to the waterfront.