Beneath a darkly clouded night sky Ser Maric moved through the streets of Kings Landing with a purposeful stride. Around him, even at this late hour, the city was still bustling around a great variety of brothels, taverns and street vendors. Draped in an oversized tattered cloak Maric looked quite imposing armored in breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, gauntlets and greaves over mail and leathers.

Manning men-at-arms were notorious for cruelty in battle. Their words, 'Show No Mercy' were the last thing their enemies wanted to hear, and often were. Maric himself was one of their most zealous knights, known to all as Ser Maric-the-mean.

Maric's perpetual scowl was exacerbated by the ugly gash of a scar cut down across his face. This occured early in his youth when he snuck out of his chambers late at night in search of mischief. Maric’s older brother Uther, heir to House Manning, was returning from a moonlight patrol around their castle Agoness. As he entered the courtyard, still mounted, Maric rushed towards him from the shadows. By reflex Uther kicked at him with his spurs lacerating him from chin to brow.

The fact Uther never apologized for Marics disfigurement was merely the first of many slights Maric suffered from his elder siblings. He was only the fourth-born son after all, relegated to menial duties and responsibilities like to those of a common sellsword. The surest way for Maric to earn respect for himself was victory in battles and tournaments.

He won victories more often than not, yet chivalry and justice were of no concern to him. In between battles Maric embraced the role of brute and thug. Rather than defending the weak and disadvantaged he preyed on them.

As he approached a throng of commoners most moved out of his path. Those who didn’t were rudley shoved or pushed aside. Anyone that considered taking umbrage at Maric’s surly demeanor quickly reconsidered when his eagerness to draw steel was made plain.

Maric ducked into a certain side alley off the Street of Sisters Maric waited at the corner for several moments to ensure he wasn’t followed. Maric knew he should keep his wits sharp, but as usual by the hour of the wolf he was nearly drunk. Maric's lord father and the rest of the family preferred he indulge himself away from home where his vices were much less bothersome.

Though his vision was somewhat blurred and hard to focus no one came into the alley after him. He then lurched deeper into the shadows to the dead-end of the alley. Steadying himself briefly he glanced up at a second-story window with its shutters cracked open. There on the windowsill, backlit by dim lantern light was an ornate statue of The Stranger.

Satisfied he was in the right place at the right time, Maric moved to the doorway beneath the window and fumbled with his sleeve reaching for the key he tucked underneath his bracer. Just then, a lithe, small figure slipped into the alleyway behind him silent as a cat. Key in hand, Maric steadied himself again unlocking the door. Once inside he locked the door behind him and moved up to a flight of stairs. Meanwhile out in the alley, the figure following him started climbing, moving carefully along eaves, balconies and clotheslines until they were close enough to the open window to overhear voices inside.

Maric reached the doorway for the room upstairs and saw it was already cracked open for him, and so he entered. Four cloaked figures were seated across a rectangular table at the center of the room, one on each short end and two on the long side. At the center of the table, a strange glass candle stood, twisted and black with sharp edges. The candle was not burning. What dim illumination there was came from a single oil lantern hanging from the rafters.

“Sit,” said one of the cloaked figures, though he couldn’t be sure which one. Each of their faces were well obscured in shadow within the cowls of their cloaks.

Maric pulled out the single chair provided for him and grunted, “It is done. I have come for what was promised.”

“Yes we heard of the beating you dealt to the guards of the Gildemark Manor House. That will certainly get their attention. Well done,” declared another voice, hefting a heavy coin purse up into view before dropping it on the table before him.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Maric downplayed the task with a sneer stating, “It was nothing,” as he dragged the hefty coinpurse closer and examinined its contents. There were a hundred golden dragons inside.

“You should expect the Gildemark’s will come looking for you,” warned a third voice.

“Aye they likely will. Of course that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Ser Maric asked, his eyes moving back and forth between each of his hosts.

“Correct. We would like you to escalate things further, if you’re up for it?”

“That will cost you triple!” Maric demanded.

“Triple the risk deserves triple the reward,” the fourth voice agreed, and an unusual voice it was. Maric couldn’t quite place the accent?

“It will likely be a few weeks before whoever they send arrives in Kings Landing. In the meantime I want to be well taken care of,” Maric stated most conceitedly.

“We will give you half the payment up front. That should serve succor to your needs adequately,” one of the four answered… hefting another coin purse into view.

“I want something else as well. I want a token!” Maric grunted testily. He was on the edge of his wits now, a puppet of his own arrogance made to move on strings of vice, hatred, hostility and greed.

“A token is worth much more than this!” all four of the hooded figures exclaimed at once.

“Call it a bonus then! Rest assured I will make a lasting example of whatever knight they send after me,” Maric proffered.

The figures seemed to pause and look to each other in consideration of this ask, though no words actually passed between them. Meanwhile outside, the eavesdropper gritted her teeth together, Bastard! She thought to herself. I remember well what token you speak of!

Valterra was one of the Strangers Orphans, a term describing the sons and daughters of the Strangers Chosen who gave their lives in service to The Cult of the Stranger. All her life Valterra was told lies about her father, both before and after his disappearance.

Normally Strangers Orphans were well looked after, as a reward to the families of those who sacrificed themselves for the sake of the same voices speaking to Ser Maric right now. Valterra however was an exception, as her father most likely had failed to complete his last assassination, whatever that might have been?

Instead she was taken to a degenerate pleasure house known as 'The Honey Cup', used and abused by men who spent their tokens as payment for whatever vices they wished to indulge. Her platinum silver hair, ‘the mark of dragons blood’ they said, made her many mans favorite plaything. Those memories, as much as her experiences, left her scarred. Both emotionally and literally.

Her own facial scar was slightly less savage than Ser Maric’s, but no less obvious; cut down her left cheek by a patrons dagger as punishment for disobedience. Eventually, Valterra managed to escape 'The Honey Cup' shortly after her seventeenth nameday. Afterwards she spent several months hiding in the alleyways of Kings Landing, terrified of being found and returned to that godforsaken place.

The figure with the strange voice produced a token for The Honey Cup and held it out on his palm. He has smooth skin, Maric noted, seeing none of the callouses a warrior’s hand would carry.

Maric reached for the token, an eager smile on his scarred lips, until suddenly the coin started floating upwards out of his reach. Maric’s eyes followed it upwards in disbelief just as the figure grabbed Ser Maric by the wrist, yanking him forward with surprising strength.

“Listen well Cur!” the strangers voice scolded as the glass candle flared into life with an eerie bright flame.

Maric stared at the robed figures face… or what should have been his face. Instead there was only a mask shaped in the likeness of a face, beautifully engraved, made from Valyrian Steel.

“...do not presume to make demands of us!” the mask hissed.

Maric struggled, suddenly terrified, reaching for his dagger with his free hand. The strangers grip tightened and Maric shrieked as he felt his wrist about to break.

“OK! OK!” Maric stammered ceasing his struggle. The strangers grip relaxed just a little but still held tight.

“Consider yourself fortunate we are willing to overlook this misunderstanding, so long as it never happens again,” The stranger threatened coldly. Malic looked up at the mask, shocked to see it blur before his eyes revealing his own face staring back down at him.

Maric gasped, pulling away with all his might just as the stranger released his grip. Ser Maric fell backwards tumbling out of his chair. When he regained his feet in a panic the candle was gone and the room was empty.