The night swallowed him instantly.
Leaving the panicked shouts of the royal guards far below, Yoriichi bounded across the terracotta rooftops of King's Landing with the silent, weightless grace of a phantom. The heavy black fabric of his traveling cloak snapped in the evening wind like bat wings as he vaulted over a wide alleyway, landing perfectly on the edge of a three-story inn. He did not break his stride.
He ran for several minutes at a normalized, steady pace, allowing his superhuman senses to map the sprawling, chaotic geography of the capital. The sun had completely vanished beyond the horizon, plunging the city into a sea of flickering orange torchlight and deep, oppressive shadows.
Sensing the darkness had fully set in, providing him the cover he needed, Yoriichi decided to step down. He dropped from the edge of a slanted roof, falling fifteen feet and landing in a perfect, silent crouch in a narrow, cobbled valley between the hills.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, drawing in a sharp breath through his nose. Haaah...
The scent was still there. It was faint, carried on the shifting northern winds, but it was undeniable. The suffocating smell of raw copper, ancient rot, and pure, concentrated darkness. It was pulling him steadily toward the northeastern quadrant of the city.
He began to walk. The streets here were alive with the evening rush. He passed bustling merchant squares, where blacksmiths hammered late into the night, weavers packed away their linens, and tavern doors swung open to spill the raucous sounds of drunkards and the smell of roasting meats into the street. It made him wonder, briefly, at the sheer scale of human endeavor. From the golden halls of the Red Keep to these soot-stained streets, the city was a living, breathing organism.
But as his path veered further northeast, the terrain began to slope downward. The cobblestones gave way to packed, hardened mud. The ambient light grew dimmer, the torches fewer and further between.
He was entering Flea Bottom.
It was the undisputed hub of the capital's poorest, most desperate commoners. Yoriichi had spent his entire life in the Red Keep, or traveling under heavy guard to the golden fortress of Westerlands. He had read of this place in the Maesters' histories, and he had smelled its collective stench from the high balconies, but this was the first time he was truly walking through its heart.
The reality of the slums was far worse than parchment could describe. The stench of raw sewage running in open gutters, mixed with the pungent, boiling aroma of the famous "Bowl of Brown"—a mysterious, perpetual stew of questionable meats and vegetables—assaulted his heightened senses. The houses here were not stone or timber, but wretched hovels built of mud, straw, and rotting planks, stacked precariously on top of one another like a crumbling hive.
He slowed his pace, his deep burgundy eyes taking in the sheer misery of the populace. Men with hollowed cheeks sat in the mud, staring at nothing. Sickly dogs fought over scraps of bone.
Suddenly, he felt a weak, tentative tug on his leather boot.
Yoriichi paused. He looked down. Crouched in the muck beside a rain barrel was a little boy, perhaps no older than five. The child was dressed in little more than filthy rags, his face smeared with soot, his ribs visible through his skin. The boy looked up at the towering figure wrapped in the black cloak, holding out a trembling, dirt-caked hand.
Yoriichi's stoic expression softened. The cold, analytical warrior faded for a moment, replaced by a deep, intrinsic compassion. This child was the same age his sister Jeyne had been when they first started playing in the gardens. The contrast between his family's obscene wealth and this boy's starvation was a stark, ugly reality.
Without a word, Yoriichi crouched down, bringing himself to the boy's eye level. He gently reached out, patting the child's matted hair. He reached beneath his cloak, rummaging through the small leather pouch tied to his belt. He bypassed the gold dragons and silver stags, knowing that giving a starving child a fortune would only result in the boy being murdered for it before morning.
Instead, he pulled out a handful of copper pennies and half-groats. He placed them gently into the boy's small, dirty palms. The child's eyes went wide as saucers. He clutched the coins to his chest, offering a frantic, tearful nod before scrambling away into the shadows to hide his treasure.
"Looks like a wealthy thing is wandering where he shouldn't," a gruff voice muttered from the shadows of a nearby doorway.
"Hm... look at the boots. Fine leather. His cloak is clean, too," another voice whispered back. "And did you see the hilt of that sword when his cloak parted? Crimson silk and dark metal. Looks expensive."
"Too expensive for Flea Bottom."
Yoriichi heard the whispers perfectly. The desperate, predatory gazes of several men tracked him from the alleyways. He simply ignored them, rising back to his full height and continuing his walk. He could feel the dark, unnatural scent getting stronger. He was nearing the area.
As he focused on tracking the scent, taking a turn down a particularly dark, narrow passage that smelled heavily of urine and damp earth, he noticed a distinct, shuffling footstep keeping pace with him, about twenty yards back.
Yoriichi didn't break his stride. He calmly walked deeper into the alley, waiting until the ambient noise of the main thoroughfare faded entirely and the shadows swallowed them both.
Suddenly, a heavy, calloused hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.
"Mister," a raspy, confident voice sneered from right behind him. "Don't think acting all mysterious and silent is going to keep you safe down here."
Yoriichi stopped.
The man behind him laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "Those other fools by the stew pots might cower at a black cloak, but not me. If there is wealth to be had, there is risk to be taken. And from the size of your shoulders, you look weak beneath all that fabric. Hand over the coin pouch and the sword, and I might let you keep your throat."
Yoriichi did not turn around. He did not speak.
Instead, in a blur of motion so fast the human eye could not register the transition, Yoriichi spun. His left hand shot out like a striking viper. His fingers locked around the mugger's thick, unwashed neck.
With a casual, terrifying display of raw physical strength, Yoriichi lifted the grown man completely off his feet.
He slammed the mugger back against the damp brick wall of the alley. The impact drove the air from the man's lungs in a violent whoosh. The rusted dagger the man had been holding clattered uselessly to the cobblestones.
A few feet away, two other beggars who had been waiting to help ambush the stranger let out terrified yelps and scrambled away into the darkness, realizing instantly they had targeted a monster.
The mugger kicked his legs wildly in the air, his hands tearing desperately at Yoriichi's iron grip. His face rapidly turned a deep, mottled purple as his windpipe was crushed. He stared down into the fathomless, terrifying burgundy eyes of the youth beneath the black mask.
"My lord... please..." the man choked out, his arrogance entirely evaporated, replaced by absolute, primal terror. Tears streamed down his grimy face. "It was... a mistake... I... I wouldn't do it again... please!"
Yoriichi analyzed the man's aura. It was pathetic, driven by hunger and petty greed, but lacking true murderous intent. He was a rat, not a predator.
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