Chapter 5 - Hunting in the Slums

DURRANDON'S BARATHEON POV

288 AC

My first visit to King's Landing had been exactly what I expected, loud, crowded, and reeking of smoke, sweat, and the occasional whiff of something far worse.

Still, the city had its uses.

I waited in my chambers until midnight, absently stroking one of my cats, a sleek, indifferent creature that purred softly, oblivious to the schemes turning over in my mind. The only other soul in the room, and likely the only one who wouldn't stab me for a bag of silver stags tonight.

Winter nights in the Red Keep were quiet. 

Most preferred to huddle by the hearths, nursing their cups of sour red while the wind howled through the stone corridors. The castle felt like a slumbering beast, ancient, brooding, and dangerous only if you were foolish enough to poke it.

It wasn't nearly as bitter as it must have been for the smallfolk down in the city, I doubted the brothels on the Street of Silk kept their fires burning for free, but the chill was enough to make the guards on patrol sluggish.

Perfect.

I donned a black cloak, because of course I did. There's a reason it's a cliché, it works. The dark fabric swallowed the light, muffled the soft clink of my gear, and blurred my silhouette against the stone walls. Stealth, after all, was equal parts silence and misdirection. Tonight, I was a whisper in the dark.

All things considered, getting out of the castle was the easy part.

The real challenge was descending Aegon's Hill without snapping my neck, then making my way across the rooftops of King's Landing.

The city was a maze of slanted tiles, rotten beams, and loose ledges, all too eager to betray me if I wasn't careful. Fortunately, I had a few advantages like my lighter, child-sized frame, my proficiency with both my Athletics and Acrobatics, and my ever-reliable Tactical Mind, a combat spirit in my head that quietly pushed me not to die doing something idiotic.

I moved fast but careful, darting across the Street of the Sisters, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, until Rhaenys' Hill rose before me.

And there it was, the Dragonpit. Even in ruin, it loomed.

It was a carcass of a building, skeletal and broken, but still there, a dead thing that refused to be forgotten.

According to my memories of my previous life and my lessons with Pycelle, the hill had once been crowned by the Sept of Remembrance, built to honor Rhaenys Targaryen after she died during her ill-fated conquest of Dorne. But Maegor, her nephew, wasn't the sentimental type.

The Warrior's Sons had taken the sept as their stronghold, and Maegor, in his usual, thoughtful manner, rode Balerion the Black Dread over the hill and burned the whole thing to the ground.

Then, for good measure, he ordered the Dragonpit built in its place, a stable for monsters.

Ironically, building it proved harder than Maegor expected. Perhaps because he'd executed most of the architects who built the Red Keep, and the few who remained preferred to keep their heads attached to their necks.

But, in the end, the Dragonpit was born.

Now? Now it was a hollow shell, a mausoleum to dead dragons and dead dreams.

The "pit" was a lie. It had once been a domed behemoth of a building, its gates wide enough for thirty knights to ride through abreast. The gates were still there, rusted and sagging, but the dome was long gone, brought down by dragonfire, rage, and stupidity.

Slipping through a gap in the gates was child's play.

Inside, the place was massive, an arena of sand and stone, with forty cavernous vaults beneath the floor. Cells built for dragons, because nothing says "majesty" like chaining your most powerful weapons underground.

At its height, the Dragonpit had held around twenty dragons during the reign of King Viserys I, just before the Dance of the Dragons. 

Their only dance, really.

A civil war so catastrophic that it killed not just half of House Targaryen, but most of their dragons too.

For creatures of such power, they were shockingly bad at politics.

It was almost laughable. A dynasty built on dragonfire, only to watch their precious beasts get slaughtered by peasants with pitchforks and a zealot screaming about sin.

The storming of the Dragonpit was the final insult. Thousands of smallfolk, whipped into a frenzy by the Shepherd, overwhelmed the four chained dragons left inside.

The dragons fought back, fire, claws, teeth, but they died all the same.

Dreamfyre was the last. She broke free of her chains, tried to escape, and brought the dome crashing down on herself, and everyone else.

A dramatic exit, I suppose.

The smallfolk won. The dragons died. And the Dragonpit became what it was now, a graveyard.

Later, during the Great Spring Sickness, they'd used it as a mass pyre, burning hundreds of corpses with wildfire.

Poetic, in a way, the Targaryens' grand dragon stable reduced to a smoldering heap of death and disease.

And now? Now it was a playground for the city's worst, smugglers, cutthroats, and those who preferred their dealings unseen.

A twisted bit of justice.

The Dragonpit, once a symbol of the Targaryens' might, now a haunt for the very sort of people they tried to intimidate.

But tonight, it was silent. Still. Disappointing.

If there was anything of value left, it had long since been scavenged or looted. If any of Aerys' wildfire caches remained hidden, they'd be buried too deep for me to uncover without days of digging, not exactly a midnight hobby.

Still, the size of the place intrigued me.

It was vast…a ruin, yes… but a grand ruin.

With the right touch, it could be something more. A colosseum, perhaps, a place of bloodsport and spectacle, where men fought for glory, gold, or both. Or a refuge for the smallfolk, should the winters grow harsher, an underground sanctuary against the cold.

But the idea that pleased me most, and didn't eliminate the others, was a base of operations. A headquarters for my own Thieves' Guild, hidden in plain sight, nestled within the bones of a structure meant to house dragons.

A ruin reclaimed by those who destroyed it. Fitting.

For now, though, it was just me, standing in the shadow of a long-dead dynasty's lost power, already plotting what I might build from its ashes.

————————————————————————

The wind kept gnawing at me.

Even with the thick cloak wrapped tight around my shoulders, the night's chill crept in, a sharp, needling cold that slipped through the Dragonpit's ruined arches and bit at my fingers. 

The city below still smoldered with life, distant torches flickering like dying stars along the streets of Rhaenys' Hill, but up here, the wind ruled. A cruel winter night.

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

But suddenly I noticed that I wasn't alone.

The voices reached me first, low, rough murmurs carried on the icy gusts, too steady for beggars or looters. I moved without a sound, keeping to the crumbling walls, each step careful not to disturb loose rubble. My breath came slow and controlled, a white mist barely escaping my lips.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

Then I saw them.

Five figures huddled within the remains of an ancient dragon vault, a half-collapsed arch framing their secret meeting. A single lantern hung from a broken sconce, its flame weak against the dark. It threw long, jagged shadows across the stone, flickering silhouettes of men who didn't want to be seen.

One of them was a Gold Cloak.

His armor looked neglected, scuffed breastplate, cloak more brown than gold. He didn't stand like a soldier. He leaned, casual, almost bored, thumb hooked into his belt beside the hilt of his sword. His other hand toyed with a pouch of coins, the soft clink of gold against gold a whisper beneath the wind.

The other four weren't city guards.

They wore rough gambesons reinforced with leather, the kind too practical for common cutthroats. Weapons at their sides, not just daggers, but axes and short swords. 

One had a notched blade strapped across his back. Another, a thick scarf covering the lower half of his face, his breath misting through the fabric. These weren't desperate thieves, they were men who expected a fight and knew how to win one.

The tallest of them, a scar running from eyebrow to jaw, and some missing fingers spoke first. His voice was like gravel grinding beneath a boot. "The patrols?"

The Gold Cloak smirked, weighing the pouch in his hand before slipping it into his cloak.

"Won't touch Flea Bottom tomorrow night." He said. "So long as my captain sees his share."

Flea Bottom.

A pit of poverty and filth where the law barely reached, or rather, where it only arrived when there was coin in it for the right pockets. But this wasn't about drunken brawls or petty thievery. 

Not with men like these.

The scarred man's coin danced across his knuckles, a practiced habit, not a nervous tic.

"And the port?" I heard one of them asking.

"Clear until first light." The Gold Cloak replied, a glint of teeth in his grin. "Move the shipment…whatever the fuck it is…and no one will bat an eye."

A shipment.

I didn't shift, didn't breathe too hard, but my mind raced. Smuggling, most likely. Drugs, stolen goods, maybe something worse. Any city's docks were always a nest of crime, but for a guard to promise clear passage… this was more than a single bribe.

"The Butcher's back in the city." One of the other men muttered.

It was the first new voice, rougher, younger, and the way the others reacted told me the name carried weight. The scarred man's hand stilled over the coin. The Gold Cloak's grin thinned just a little.

The Butcher.

I didn't know the name, not yet, but the way they spoke of him, it wasn't as a friend. It was as a force. A man with pull.

The scarred man nodded slowly. "He says the king's more interested in his next hunt than the city's rot."

Robert.

The cold seemed a little sharper at the mention of my father, the king. These men didn't speak of him with fear or loyalty. To them, he was a drunken, distracted ruler, too busy chasing boars and whores to notice the sickness growing beneath his very walls.

"So long as the crown looks the other way." The Gold Cloak said. "There's plenty of gold to be made."

I clenched my jaw and then—crack!

[STEALTH CHECK FAILED!]

It was quiet, barely louder than the wind, a small sound, a single pebble shifting beneath my boot. But here, in the stillness of the ruined Dragonpit, it might as well have been a drum.

The scarred man's head snapped up, his hand darting to his blade. "Who's there?"

The others moved fast, too fast. 

One man pulled a dagger free, the Gold Cloak took a step back, hand on his sword hilt, and the scarfed man was already scanning the shadows with sharp, practiced eyes.

"You bring someone with you?" Snarled the younger criminal, his dagger twitching toward the Gold Cloak.

For a split second, I thought the guard might die then and there, his 'allies' turning on him like a pack of wolves at the scent of a double-cross.

The Gold Cloak's eyes widened. "What? No! I came alone! Put that fucking thing away. Lothar! Control your man!"

"Then what was that?" The scarred man's voice cut through the night. Cold. Dangerous. Apparently his name was Lothar.

I didn't freeze, freezing meant death. 

Instead, I moved.

Slipping back behind the crumbling stone, heart thundering in my chest, the icy air burning in my lungs as I kept low and silent. I heard footsteps, fast and heavy, coming straight for me.

"I heard something." The younger criminal growled. "Someone was watching."

A rough voice, the scarred man, I thought, barked a curse. "Find this rat!"

My mind raced. I wasn't in the dungeon anymore, these weren't slow, rotting corpses with dead eyes and dull senses. These were men, sharp, experienced men, who knew this city like the back of their hand. 

And right now, I was their prey.

I slipped further into the ruins, heart pounding, legs coiled tight like a spring, moving as quickly as I dared without making a sound. But I could hear him behind me, the younger thug, his boots crunching softly over stone, getting closer.

Too close. An alley. I needed an alley!

And just as I bolted, I heard. "There!"

The shout rang out behind me, and I heard the rush of pursuit. I didn't look back, I just ran, cloak snapping behind me, cold air cutting into my lungs with every step. The path twisted and broke beneath my feet, but I knew where I was going.

The narrow gap between two collapsed walls, just wide enough for a boy but too tight for a grown man.

I darted through it, twisting sideways, scraping my arm against rough stone, and then I was free, slipping into the ruined alleyway beyond.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

The thug skidded to a stop behind me, cursing. His shadow loomed against the wall, the blade in his hand catching the weak moonlight.

"Shit!" He muttered while kicking a loose stone in frustration. "Little rat's gone."

I didn't breathe, not yet.

I waited, motionless, watching his shadow linger for a moment longer before he finally turned away, spitting on the ground.

And then, just as he moved back toward the others, I heard him grumble. "Another one of the Spider's little spies, no doubt."

The scarred man's voice followed, annoyed, but more controlled. "Then why aren't we using brats too?"

"Ain't my call." The thug muttered. "Maybe the Butcher doesn't want a pack of street rats sleeping with knives under their pillows. Or maybe he just doesn't want to make it all that easy for the Spider to infiltrate our business."

A short silence. Then they left.

I stayed there a while, making sure there was no trap waiting for me, long enough for the cold to numb my fingers and the city's distant sounds to remind me I was still alive. 

Then, finally, I slipped back into the night. My heart was still racing, not just from the chase, but from the realization that struck me like a hammer.

These men, these criminals, were better at this than I was.

And the Spider wasn't the only one with a web in the dark.

Heh, just when I thought I was being original with my plans for my own thieve's guild.

————————————————————————

I would have liked to investigate that mysterious shipment at the docks, truly, I would, but there's only so long one can keep leaping across rooftops before the charm wears thin.

The less impoverished districts of King's Landing make for poor parkour grounds. Too many wide streets, too many watchful eyes.

Unless… the sewers? Hmm… 

I save that thought away for later. The smell alone makes it a plan of last resort. Certainly wouldn't want to repeat the experience I had with the Instant Dungeon this early.

Instead, I set my sights on Flea Bottom.

I slip away from the crumbling ruin of the Dragonpit and descend into the twisted sprawl of the city's poorest quarter.

It clings to the hill like a parasite, a chaotic mass of slanting hovels and smoke-stained brick, crawling down from the Dragonpit's shadow until it bleeds into the Street of Flowers.

If I had bothered to glance north or west, I might have seen the finer homes of the wealthy, spacious, airy, and proud, each one a symbol of comfort and standing.

But southward? Southward lies the rot. And the uncontested cold.

Winter may not have fully settled its claws this far south of the Neck, but the night air rushes at me all the same, a sharp, biting chill that seeps through my cloak and licks at the edges of my gloves.

The wind, carrying the sour stink of King's Landing, feels even crueler when it cuts through the narrow alleys.

The way the night's silence is too complete in some corners, the faint scrape of movement behind shuttered windows. I brush it off as rats or the wind slipping through cracked wood.

A mistake, but not one that haunts me, not yet.

Have I mentioned that Flea Bottom is a slum? Well, it is. And if that sounds repetitive, blame the place, not me.

The streets here are not paved, they're hardly streets at all, more like narrow, crooked veins winding between ramshackle buildings.

The Gold Cloaks rarely bother to patrol after dark, not unless they're here to collect their cut from the very criminals who prey on the smallfolk.

Justice, it seems, comes with a price tag. Not that it has ever been different.

During my time here, I tried my best to keep to the shadows, moving quietly enough to avoid drawing the attention of anyone who might be awake.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

Most of the time, my Stealth skill allowed me to slip through unnoticed. A muttered curse from a drunkard about seeing the neighbor's kid playing on the rooftops was the only reaction I drew in my occasional failure of remaining unnoticed. 

An easy mistake to let lie.

Above me, the houses lean so close together that their roofs nearly touch, blocking out most of the moonlight. The further I press in, the more the night thickens into something dense and grim, a permanent sort of twilight. Even the sky seems reluctant to linger here.

And the smell… gods, the smell. How could a place people call home ever be comparable to the undead miasma of the Instant Dungeon?

King's Landing has never been famed for its sweet fragrance, but Flea Bottom is the beating, festering heart of its stench.

The odor of butchered pigs, rotting vegetables, and human waste stains the air. Rivulets of filth creep down the sides of buildings and pool in the dips of the alleys.

But worse than all of that is the undercurrent, the stale reek of unwashed bodies, of sour ale, of taverns and whorehouses, clinging to everything like a second skin.

I tug my cloak a little tighter. Not because of the smell, I've grown numb to that by now, but because the cold plagues even deeper here. The moisture in the air clings to the walls and the stone, and the chill seems to rise from the very ground itself.

[CONSTITUTION SAVE FAILED!…]

[HEROIC INSPIRATION EXPENDED!]

[CONSTITUTION SAVE FAILED! EXHAUSTION LEVEL 1]

Resisting the cold was easier said than done.

At first I managed to just push on with only a shiver, but now after my first failed save led me to struggle so as not to cough or let my teeth chatter whenever another breeze blew past me, the early signs of Exhaustion made me more conscious of my own vulnerability to the elements.

Nevertheless…where was I? Oh, right…There's the infamous local delicacy. If "delicacy" is even the right word.

A bowl of brown.

I've heard enough to know that its contents are a mystery best left unsolved, a perpetual stew of whatever scraps the pot shops can scrounge up, from half-spoiled vegetables to bits of questionable meat. It's affordable, at least, which is all that matters to those who live here.

It's said that in the finer parts of the city, the nobles speculate about what's really in it. Down here, no one bothers to ask. Hunger outweighs curiosity.

Even now, as I move through the maze of alleyways, I pass more than a few pot shops. Their doors are closed, shutters drawn, the massive iron cauldrons slumbering in the dark, providing me occasional warmth just to avoid worsening my Exhaustion. 

Tomorrow, they'll be boiling again, an endless cycle of stirring, adding, serving.

I linger by one for a breath too long. Just enough to ease the sting in my fingers.

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

The faintest glow of a dying fire behind a pot shop's shutters. The shuffle of movement inside a supposedly closed shop.

Not all of Flea Bottom sleeps, some watch, some wait. A knife scraped against a whetstone? Or just a rat skittering across the floorboards?

I don't stay to find out.

Perhaps Davos is here tonight, revisiting his old home. Or maybe a young Gendry, still toiling away before fate drags him to Tobho Mott's forge.

But more than that, I wonder if these streets, this forgotten corner of King's Landing, could be shaped into something useful.

There's power in the desperate and downtrodden. The smallfolk may be voiceless now, but free them from their chains, or at least from the crime lords and corrupt Gold Cloaks who leech off them, and they could become loyal to the one who gave them hope.

I pass over a huddled group of smallfolk, their fire little more than a dying ember. They sit shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in thin cloaks and patched rags, whispering to one another.

[INSIGHT CHECK SUCCEED!]

I recognize not just fear, but a flicker of something else, quiet defiance.

Not all of them are broken. Some still have a spark. A spark that could be kindled. If not by the High Sparrow, then by someone else.

A thought for another time.

For now, I move deeper into the slum, careful to keep my steps light and my eyes open.

The night is far from over.

[NEW QUEST: EXPLORE THE GUTTER!]

[COMPLETE YOUR TOUR AROUND FLEA BOTTOM IN ONE PIECE]

[MAKE THE PEOPLE KNOW THAT SOMEONE IS FIGHTING CRIME, BUT DON'T LET THEM SEE YOU]

[LEARN WHO IS THE BUTCHER]

[DON'T GET CAUGHT BY THE GOLD CLOAKS]

[REWARD: PROGRESS OVER YOUR ROGUE AND RANGER CLASSES]

[DO YOU ACCEPT?]

[YES/NO]

'Level up my Classes? Hell yeah!' I thought before choosing YES.

————————————————————————

Okay, the night stretches long, but not endlessly. I remind myself of that with every passing hour.

The Red Keep still stood high above the city, a looming shadow over the moonlight at my back. To me dawn was a threat, not a promise, a ticking clock counting down the hours until I must return. If I linger too long, I risk more than just being caught outside the walls. Someone might notice my absence. A guard, a servant, or worse, the Spider.

If they catch me sneaking back in…No. I won't let it come to that.

But for now, the night was mine.

The first hour was reconnaissance. I keep to the high places when I can, scaling loose bricks, balancing along crumbling ledges, moving above the streets like smoke. 

A loose brick gives way beneath my foot, but I shift my weight just in time, muscles burning as I grab a jutting piece of timber to steady myself. 

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

Not as silent as I would have liked. A dog barks somewhere below, a ragged mutt more bone than fur, but no one looks up.

I exhale slowly. A small slip, but one that I managed to prevent from escalating out of control before moving on.

When I must descend, I stick to the narrowest alleys, the ones choked with refuse and stinking of piss. 

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

Twice, I pass too close to beggars curled against the walls, their hollow eyes flickering open at the sound of my boots scraping against stone. I freeze each time, willing myself into shadow, heart pounding until they lose interest and sink back into their hunger-ridden slumber.

It wasn't about confrontation, not yet. It's about seeing.

The deeper I delved the soon I realized that Flea Bottom was more alive than I had assumed, even at this hour. The poor don't have the luxury of sleep. 

Women draw water from scum-rimmed wells, their hands raw and red even in the cold. Children dart through the streets like wild animals, barefoot and silent, their ribs pressing against their skin as they scavenge. The men, the dangerous ones, linger near doorways, faces obscured by hoods or tangled beards, speaking in low voices or trading coins with the flick of a wrist.

I don't miss the real players either, those that move with purpose.

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

A man in a patched cloak, too fine for this part of the city, his gut too full, his boots too clean. He collects a purse from a brewer behind a tavern, hush money, protection money, a silent exchange of silver. Not a purchase. A payment.

He's part of something bigger, no doubt. One of the Butcher's men, I assume.

I follow him, but never too close. 

At one point, the man stops abruptly. My heart stutters. He glances behind him, his hand slipping to the hilt of his knife. I press myself into a shadowed alcove, silent, still, but my cloak brushes against a rusty bucket, sending it clattering to the ground.

The man's head snaps toward the noise.

Seconds crawl by. He waits. I wait longer.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

Then, with a muttered curse, he moves on.

A close call. Too close.

After, twice he stops, once to pocket a bribe from a peddler selling stolen trinkets, and again to speak with an off-duty Gold Cloak slouched against a corner. No words are exchanged, just a glance, a nod, and the whisper of coins changing hands.

Corruption bleeds through the city like a slow poison.

I knew this already. I've read the histories, and heard the rumors. But seeing it, the silent language of greed and fear, is something else entirely.

It's not surprising. But it's a useful thread to pull later.

The second hour is about leaving marks. The Stranger's touch, or at least that's the symbol I choose for now. Not bold, obvious messages. No, this is something subtler.

I could scrawl a warning in blood, or carve a name into a wall, but that's the work of a man. The Stranger doesn't speak. The Stranger doesn't shout. The Stranger whispers.

And so do I.

Behind the tavern, the one where the brewer paid for his protection, I planted a knife in the wooden back door. 

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK SUCCEED!]

The blade is blackened with soot, a simple trick, but it works. It sinks in silently, the handle angled just right, not obvious, but visible enough to be noticed by the right pair of eyes.

Not a threat, not yet, just a question waiting to be asked. Who left this? What does it mean? I need them to believe this is something more.

Then, the brothel, a circle of dark ash smeared on the wall. 

[PERFORMANCE CHECK FAILED!]

The symbol comes out rougher than I intended, a bit too smeared, too haphazard. To an untrained eye, it could be mistaken for a simple stain, not the intended mark of the Stranger.

I curse under my breath. That was meant to be one of my most reliable skills! Argh! Sloppy. Next time, I'll bring something better than a bit of ash and wishful thinking.

But my favorite touch, the coins.

I gather a handful of coppers from the mud, coins lost by drunks or careless thieves, and arrange them in a perfect row outside a gambling den. 

[INVESTIGATION CHECK FAILED!]

One by one, I set the coins down, aligned like a silent count. The positioning matters, not random,

No message. No explanation. Just a strange, quiet warning. The point isn't the symbols themselves, it's the silence behind them. A man leaves a threat. A god leaves a question.

And fear always grows faster in the dark.

The third hour is for listening. Not for answers, not yet, but for the tremors in the net. I slip into the alleys, moving without sound, keeping to the edges of flickering torchlight.

Two beggars fight over a scrap of bread, a bony man with a twisted foot and a young woman, her face gaunt. Their argument veers from hunger to something darker.

"The Butcher's boys." The man hisses. "They take from us too, you know. Even us."

The woman doesn't argue. She knows it's true.

Farther down, a pair of cutthroats, rough men with scarred knuckles, speak in hushed tones.

"The reckoning's coming." One mutters. "A few days, maybe less."

The other grunts. "He'll call on them, those who owe, those who serve. And gods help the ones who come empty-handed."

A meeting. A gathering of the Butcher's followers. A place to pull the thread tighter.

But then there's the boy.

He's small, ten, maybe younger, wrapped in rags and clutching a half-eaten onion like it's a priceless gem. His friend, a girl no older than him, listens wide-eyed as he whispers.

"They say he doesn't come in the light." The boy murmurs. "The Butcher. Only at night. Only when you owe too much."

The girl trembles. "I heard he cuts folk up like pigs. Hangs the pieces in the dark so the rats can take what's left."

I slip away before they notice the shadow watching them.

The fourth hour is when the weight of time begins pressing against me. The first hints of dawn haven't come yet, but the night is no longer a child. I feel it, the shift in the air, the softening of the dark.

Soon, I will have to go back, that's the quiet warning beneath my ribs.

I can't afford to be caught slipping into the Red Keep. If a Gold Cloak sees me, it won't just be a scolding, it will be a scandal. Questions I cannot answer.

Still, there's time for one last seed to be sown.

I returned to the alley where I saw the Butcher's man exchanging coins with the out of duty Gold Cloak. It's empty now, just the rotting stench of piss and mildew.

In the dirt, with the tip of my Valyrian steel dagger, I draw a figure: a hooded silhouette, its face nothing but an empty void.

A crude depiction of the Stranger. 

Beside it, I place a single copper coin. No threat. No signature. Just a silent promise. Then I slip away, moving like smoke through the tangled streets.

By the time I near the Red Keep, the sky has turned a darker shade of blue, a warning that dawn will not wait.

I check twice for pursuers. Three times.

The Butcher's net was wide. But nets could be cut. And soon, the people of Flea Bottom will stop fearing him.

They'll fear something far worse. The Stranger has come.

————————————————————————

The morning came too soon. It always does.

I woke in my chambers, the faint chill of King's Landing's winter clinging to the stone walls, though the cold never truly bites this deep into a royal castle.

Even so, I felt it in my bones, not from the weather, but from the hours I had stolen from sleep. Thankfully I was already used to my physical training before and after sleep.

My long rest was… sufficient, six hours, broken in two, with a carefully staged appearance in between. 

Just long enough for the servants to see me wandering the halls before retiring again, for the guards at my door to exchange glances and note the crown prince's peculiar but harmless wakefulness. It was a delicate balance, this double life of mine, ensuring that none would whisper of my strange absence from my morning routines, nor of dark circles shadowing my eyes.

By the time the sun rose, I was once again Durrandon of House Baratheon, firstborn son of King Robert, black and silver-haired, blue and purple-eyed, dressed in the finest velvets and furs. 

The obedient and prodigious pupil of Grand Maester Pycelle, the precocious and tireless student of swordplay under Ser Barristan Selmy.

The very picture of a boy born to rule.

A child cloaked in silk and gold. But beneath it all, the Stranger still lingered.

I felt it as I sat in the solar, quill poised over parchment, Pycelle's reedy voice droning on about the Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. 

His words drifted past me like a distant murmur, a soft hum of facts and names I had long since memorized. My hand moved mechanically, scratching neat lines across the page, but my mind was elsewhere.

Last night played over in my mind, the silent marks I'd left, the whispers I'd overheard. The Butcher's men. The coins. The crude silhouette of the Stranger scrawled into the dirt.

A boy by day, a ghost by night.

The thought was almost funny. Absurd, even. I was living out some twisted, medieval version of Batman, Bruce Wayne in brocade. I played the part of the perfect prince by daylight, offering polite nods to courtiers and always concluding my daily lessons, but when the sun set, I became something else entirely.

If only the Butcher's men knew they were being hunted by a five-year-old. Or almost seven, if I count the time I spent trapped in that damned instant dungeon, the world frozen outside while I fought and starved within.

Still, it was ridiculous. I could picture it now, the fearsome villain of Flea Bottom, the so-called Butcher, hearing rumors of a shadow leaving coins and carvings in his wake… only to discover it was a child barely tall enough to hold his father's warhammer a few inches over the ground, let alone swing it.

'What are you going to do, boy?' A voice sneered in my head, taking the shape of some cartoonish villain. 'Lecture me on the correct sigils of the Great Houses?' 

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, a bitter, involuntary thing, before I wiped it away just as quickly so as not to draw suspicion from those near me.

Because the Stranger wasn't just a childish game of shadows. The Butcher's men weren't imaginary thugs conjured in a kid's fantasies. Last night wasn't a dream, it was a thread pulled from the tapestry of Flea Bottom's underworld.

The net I tugged at last night was real, the paranoia I planted, the questions I left behind. And fear, I knew, was the most useful tool in my arsenal.

Not strength or speed, I still suffered the penalty of a child's body. Not status, my father's crown shielded me only within the walls of the Red Keep. But fear? Fear worked in the dark, and spread like wildfire if not starved, just like I did.

And tonight, when the sun set and the day's charade was over…The Stranger would walk the streets again.

Because the Butcher wasn't the only thing that haunted Flea Bottom anymore.

————————————————————————

The early days were the hardest.

Not because of the exhausting tight sleep schedule I was left with, I had long since buried that beneath layers of cold purpose, but because of the sheer chaos of it all.

As I've already explained, Flea Bottom was a tangled snarl of alleyways and crooked streets, a living beast that writhed and shifted with every dawn and dusk. Mapping it wasn't a simple matter of drawing lines on parchment. The slums didn't follow the neat, orderly logic of a castle's corridors or a noble's estate. No, Flea Bottom was a living fungus, ever-changing, ever-adapting, a labyrinth of unspoken rules and invisible boundaries.

And I was no more than a shadow slipping through its veins. Small enough to go unnoticed, silent enough to be forgotten.

Or so I told myself. 

The reality was…messier. Especially when I wasn't facing the Undead of the Instant Dungeon, with their dangerous bodies and stupid minds.

I learned that on the second night, when I tried to scale a crumbling wall behind The Broken Lantern, a crooked tavern tucked into the ribs of Flea Bottom, hoping to slip onto a low roof for a better vantage point. It was a simple climb, or so I thought, handholds cracked but visible, the bricks rough enough to offer some grip.

[ATHLETICS CHECK FAILED!]

My fingers, stiff from the cold and slick with a mix of grime and sweat, slipped from the ledge. I tumbled backward, barely managing to twist mid-fall and land in the filth with a graceless thud. The impact jarred my elbow against a stone, pain flaring up my arm, not enough to break anything, but enough to make me grit my teeth and curse under my breath.

For a heartbeat, I lay there, frozen, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps.

Nothing.

Just the scuttling of a rat and the distant murmur of drunken laughter from the tavern.

A child's body. That's what I was constantly reminded that I had. Too small, too weak, too easy to bruise. My mind might have been sharper than your average grown man, but my muscles hadn't caught up yet, and the world didn't care how clever I was if I couldn't so much as scale a wall without occasionally making a fool of myself.

I needed to be faster. Stronger. Kept pushing myself up after every fall, shaking the slush from my cloak, and melted back into the alleyway's shadows.

And then there was the matter of stealth.

I thought myself silent, a ghost slipping through the cracks of the city, unnoticed and unseen.

Most of the time, I was.

But there were moments, bitter reminders of my limits, like the night I shadowed one of the Butcher's debt collectors, a brute named Oran. He was drunk, stumbling through the alleys, a pouch of stolen silver jangling at his hip. An easy mark, or so I thought.

I kept to the dark, my steps measured, slow, every ounce of poise I could muster.

[STEALTH CHECK FAILED!]

My foot grazed a loose cobblestone, sending it skittering across the alley with a clatter. Oran spun, his bloodshot eyes narrowing at the noise.

"Who's there?" He barked, drawing a jagged dagger from his belt.

I didn't move, didn't breathe. Seconds stretched like hours.

He stared into the darkness, his grip on the blade tightening, a heartbeat away from storming toward the noise. If he did, if he found me, I wouldn't be able to fight him off. Not yet.

I was small. Not particularly fast or strong. Sure, I knew how to kill, but one misstep, and I could just as easily be one-shotted by either a lucky strike or a slightly more competent enemy.

Finally, Oran let out a curse and staggered off, muttering about "rats the size of dogs".

I exhaled, only then realizing I'd been holding my breath. 

Close. Too close. I had to be better.

The streets of Flea Bottom were a puzzle, a net of power and fear, and I needed to understand the shape of it before I could pull its threads.

By the end of the first week, I knew the key players.

[LOTHAR, CHIEF ENFORCER // CHAMPION // LV: 6]

Lothar, the scarred brute missing two fingers on his left hand, the Butcher's chief enforcer, whose idea of collecting debts often left more broken bones than settled accounts.

[BRUNNA, QUEEN OF THE SLUMS // BARD // LV: 2]

Brunna, the brothel matron, was as much a queen as a whore. Her girls were spies first, playthings second, and every secret in Flea Bottom seemed to pass through her hands.

[MUDGE, THE RAT // THIEF // LV: 4]

Mudge, the wiry rat of a man who scurried between the Butcher and his underlings. No weapon to speak of, just a dull dagger, but his true power lay in the whispers he ferried from alley to alley.

They were the spine of the Butcher's empire. Not the man himself, not yet, but the supports that held his world upright.

And me? I was still a shadow. A child. Not yet the dagger in the dark I aspired to be.

But that didn't mean I couldn't plant seeds of fear.

I scrawled the Stranger's symbol, that crude silhouette, into the dirt after my first night. I left it beside the taverns where the Butcher's men drank, near the brothels they frequented, and along the alleys they used to count their stolen coins.

The reaction was subtle at first.

A beggar muttering about an "omen" as he huddled beside a dying fire. A pair of debt collectors speaking in hushed tones, their usual swagger dimmed as they glanced over their shoulders. Even Brunna's girls whispered about a shadow too small to be a man, too silent to be a mere child.

It wasn't fear, not yet, but it was a beginning.

A suggestion. An idea.

The Butcher's men ruled through terror, through the silent promise of violence lurking beneath every exchange of coin.

But now… now there was something else in those shadows. Something unseen. Unpredictable.

And an unknown enemy is more frightening than a familiar one.

————————————————————————

MUDGE'S POV

I hated the dark.

Not the soft, warm dark of a tavern's back room or the familiar gloom of Brunna's brothel, those were predictable, safe. But the true dark of Flea Bottom's alleyways, the kind that clung to the edges of a dying lantern's glow, that was different. That dark had teeth.

I told myself it was nonsense. Ghost stories and beggar talk, whispered over cheap ale, a shadow too small to be a man, the Stranger's mark left scrawled in the dirt. A child's trick.

And yet…

My hand wouldn't stop twitching. Fingers drumming a silent rhythm against my dagger's hilt, tap-tap-tap, as though the movement could chase the cold dread coiling in my belly. It was an old habit, born in the gutters of King's Landing. 

I'd been small once too, smaller than I was now, and back then, tapping my blade had been a promise. Move fast, strike first, don't stop till they stop moving.

But this was different. This wasn't some drunk lordling or a fellow cutpurse. This was something unseen. Unpredictable.

"You hear it too, don't you?" I heard a voice fishing me from my deep thoughts.

Brunna's voice slid through the night like a silk thread drawn taut. She stood at the threshold of her brothel, a fur-lined cloak loose around her shoulders, brown hair spilling like a river down her back. The girls inside whispered about her, how she wasn't just a madam, but a queen in her own way, ruling with a smile as soft as a blade's edge. 

I never knew whether to bow or flinch in her presence.

"A shadow." Brunna continued, her smile all teeth. "The Stranger's mark, that's what those poor souls have started to call it."

I clenched my jaw, fingers tapping even faster. Tap-tap-tap.

Lothar, standing beside her like a wall of scars and muscle, spat into the gutter. "Ghost stories!" The brute growled, his hand flexing at his side like he wanted something, anything, to break. "The kind beggars whisper when they've drunk too deep."

It was easy for Lothar. The man was violence made flesh, a hammer searching for a nail. But I wasn't a hammer. I was a knife, small, sharp, and only dangerous if you didn't see me coming.

But even I couldn't stab a shadow.

"We'll find the bastard!" Lothar said, his voice a promise of broken bones. "Or his corpse!"

The words settled over us like a weight, but my hand kept tapping, too fast now, too desperate.

He's watching us.

I didn't know how he knew, but he did. Somewhere, in some slit-thin crack between the alleys, that thing was watching. A being too small to be a man, too silent to be a beggar. It wasn't fear I felt, not yet, but something more dangerous.

Doubt.

"He's too cowardly to be a threat." I muttered, the words bitter on my tongue. "Too cowardly."

Brunna's smile sharpened. "So why are you sweating, Mudge?"

The tapping stopped. Silence.

For a long moment, all I heard was the distant murmur of Flea Bottom, drunken laughter, a rat scurrying through the muck, the creak of a sign swinging in the wind. But underneath it all, I imagined the quiet stare of something just out of sight. 

Watching. Waiting. Like a walking skeleton from the holy stories.

And for the first time in years, the dark felt dangerous again.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

The days bled into weeks. The weeks into months.

Winter's grip on the city had begun to loosen, but the cold I'd sown in the Butcher's ranks had only sharpened.

It started with the wine, a single, well-hidden vial of nightshade slipped into a cask destined for one of the Butcher's lesser dens. Not enough to kill, no, that would be too obvious, too clean. Just enough to turn stomachs and ignite suspicion until I felt more confident with my proficiency with my Poisoner's kit.

Then came the fires. Sudden, merciless blazes set in the dead of night. Not in the grand halls of Flea Bottom, that would be foolish, but in the quiet corners: a brothel rumored to house informants, a warehouse storing smuggled goods, a tavern where his men gathered to drink and plot.

The first fire had almost been a disaster, a harsh reminder that proficiency with my Survival skill didn't mean perfection.

Striking the flint had taken too long, my fingers stiff from the cold, trembling from more than just the night air. Sparks skittered off the kindling, too loud in the silence, and for a moment, I thought I heard a shout nearby. I froze, heart hammering in my chest, the small body I wore a cruel reminder of how easily I could be overpowered if caught.

Calm. Focus.

[SURVIVAL CHECK SUCCEED!]

I struck again, softer, slower, and this time, the flame caught. The fire licked up the dry wood, and I melted into the darkness before the orange glow could touch my back.

It wasn't perfect. But it was enough.

And when theft wasn't enough… I took lives.

Not the Butcher's trusted lieutenants, not yet. That would have been too bold, too soon. No, I started at the bottom, the drunkard guarding a shipment of stolen goods, too busy pissing in a corner to notice the shadow creeping behind him.

Even that kill wasn't as smooth as I'd envisioned.

I'd moved quickly, perhaps too quickly, my Valyrian steel dagger's edge biting deeper than intended. The man jerked in surprise, a gurgling noise escaping his throat. His hand flailed, knocking over a crate, the crash echoing like a thunderclap through the alley. For a heart-stopping moment, I waited, blade still buried in his neck, listening for approaching footsteps.

None came.

I shoved his body into the shadows, the wound messier than I would have liked. Not clean, not quiet. But effective.

The lookout dozing in an alleyway was easier. My bone club, humming faintly with the magic of Shillelagh, struck true, his neck snapping like a dry twig. 

But I'd miscalculated how small I still was. 

His dead weight almost took me down with him, his body slumping against me harder than expected. I gritted my teeth, dragging him into the dark, every muscle in my child's frame burning with the effort

[ATHLETICS CHECK SUCCEED!]

Despite my success, it was another grim reminder: my mind might be sharp, but this body was still weak.

Each body was left somewhere calculated, somewhere that told a story.

One hanging from the rafters of a burned-out warehouse, a warning. Another dumped in an alley, his own blade still clutched in stiff fingers, a mockery. A third, throat slit, with a pouch of the Butcher's coins shoved into his mouth, a silent accusation of betrayal.

And always, scrawled nearby in a smear of soot or a scratch in the dirt, was the crude symbol of the Stranger.

Word spread like wildfire, twisting through the alleys and sinking its claws into the minds of those who ruled the underbelly of King's Landing.

Lothar, Brunna, and Mudge, the Butcher's most influential lieutenants, grew restless. Suspicion, once a dull ember, flared into something sharper. Something dangerous.

And the best part?

They weren't looking for me. They were looking at each other.

————————————————————————

BRUNNA'S POV

The wine was stale, but I drank it anyway.

Better to have the taste of something bitter on my tongue than the silence biting at the edges of the room.

The Broken Lantern stank of smoke, sweat, and old beer, the scent of Flea Bottom itself, but tonight, beneath it all, there was something else. A coldness. Not from the dying hearth, but from the three of us huddled in this back room, each too proud to admit what we knew: none of us trusted the others.

Lothar paced like a caged animal, his missing fingers twitching at his side, a constant reminder of old violence. He was a brute, muscle and fury wrapped in a scarred face, but even he wasn't as loud as the silence that followed every mention of the Stranger.

Then there was Mudge, his thin fingers dancing against the table in a nervous rhythm…tap, tap, tap. His gaze flitted from me to Lothar and back again, never settling, like a rat caught between two hungry dogs. A skittish, wiry thing, but not a fool. No, Mudge knew what we all did.

This wasn't a single hand at work. Whoever the Stranger was, they weren't alone.

The spoiled wine, the fires, the stolen coin, they were too precise, too coordinated. One man couldn't have done this.

No, this reeked of a group. A careful, silent group picking us apart piece by piece. And the question none of us dared ask out loud was the same: who let them in?

Because someone had. Someone close.

I could feel Lothar's eyes flick to me, his jaw clenching like he was chewing glass. It wasn't the first time I'd seen him look at me that way.

So I let the silence drag a moment longer, let the suspicion simmer, before I swirled the last of my wine and smiled.

"You think it's me?" I asked softly, letting the words cut through the thick air. His accusation wasn't spoken, but it hung there, heavy and unrelenting.

"Please, Lothar." I added, a cold curve to my lips. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need shadows and symbols. I'd have one of my girls slip a dose of widow's blood into your cup." I raised my goblet in a mock toast. "You'd never wake again."

His scowl deepened. Good. Let him simmer. Let him wonder.

But truth be told, I was wondering too. Because if it wasn't me… and I knew it wasn't… then who?

Mudge? His fidgeting could be an act. A clever mask for someone feeding secrets to the Stranger. No one ever suspects the rat until they feel its teeth.

Or Lothar…

It would be just like him to stage all this violence, to sow fear and chaos, hoping the Butcher would turn to him, the loyal dog, to clean up the mess.

And the Butcher himself? He was too quiet lately. Too distant. Orders still came, but they were cold, clipped. As if… as if he wasn't sure who to trust either.

Or perhaps the Butcher knows something we don't.

Then there's the other rumor, the one whispered in the alleys and behind closed doors. The small folk, the whores, the beggars, the bone-thin children running the gutters, some of them were starting to speak of the Stranger in hushed, reverent tones.

Not as a threat. But as a savior.

A ghost, a shadow, yes, but one that seemed to bleed the Butcher's men and steal their coin like it was some twisted form of justice.

I'd heard it, the way the old crones muttered prayers not to the Seven, but to him. Leaving offerings of broken trinkets or burnt scraps, little things tucked into alleyway corners marked with the Stranger's crude symbol.

Superstitious nonsense, but dangerous nonsense. Because fear turns into faith faster than you'd think. And faith? Faith could start a fire that no blade could put out.

I set my empty goblet down with a sharp clink.

"The Butcher says we handle it." Lothar finally growled. "Quietly."

"Quiet." I echoed with clear mirth, because there was nothing quiet about the whispers creeping through Flea Bottom.

Mudge licked his lips, his voice scraping against the stillness. "If it's not one of us…" He rasped. "Then maybe it's someone close to him. Someone playing us against each other."

His fingers drummed faster, despite feeling weird sensations curling around my neck, almost as if I was being strangled by a snake, I kept my smile. Though my mind kept spinning.

The Stranger didn't need to kill us to destroy us.

They were already sharpening our suspicion like a blade, and when the cut came, it wouldn't be from them. It would be from one of us.

————————————————————————

GARRON'S POV

I was ten years old the first time I saw a man die in Flea Bottom, and believe it or not, I was more lucky than the average kid in the slums due to my family raising me near its borders next to the rest of the city.

Some poor bastard owed coins to the wrong people, maybe the crime lord back then, before this Butcher figure became so influential, maybe someone lower on the ladder trying to climb. 

It didn't matter. He died face down in the mud, his blood leaking into the cracks between cobblestones. And the world kept moving. The smallfolk turned their heads, and the Gold Cloaks that patrolled the alley didn't so much as slow their pace.

That was the day I learned what justice meant in this city.

It wasn't the law written in ink by lords in silk robes. It was the weight of a purse, the whisper of a threat, and the violence that came when a man didn't know when to bow his head.

And yet, somehow, against all odds, I became a Gold Cloak myself. Not because I wanted a cut of the share. But because I thought… maybe… I could make some kind of difference.

I was a fool.

Now, standing outside The Broken Lantern, the stink of smoke and stale ale thick in the air, I feel that same ten-year-old boy clawing at the back of my mind, the one who watched a man bleed out and understood, far too young, how the world really worked.

A handful of us have been ordered to root out this "cult." That's what they're calling it now, a cult devoted to the Stranger. At first, it was just whispers. A symbol scrawled on a wall here, a body found there. But it's grown.

The smallfolk, not just in Flea Bottom, but creeping into the streets beyond, have begun to speak of the Stranger with something dangerously close to reverence.

Not as a shadow haunting the Butcher's men. But as a blade wielded by some dark hand, an avenger, a reaper, punishing the wicked.

And when the smallfolk pray, it's not to the Father for justice. It's to the Stranger for vengeance.

Even the corrupt among us, the Gold Cloaks with heavier purses and dirtier hands, are uneasy. 

They serve the Butcher more than the Crown, and they aren't used to being on the back foot. They beat down beggars, drag men to the Black Cells, and turn a blind eye when the Butcher's orders come wrapped in gold.

But this? This was something they can't control.

Because how do you arrest a rumor? How do you kill an idea?

The Butcher wants this crushed, fast and quiet. No open panic. No talk of an uprising in Flea Bottom. If it spreads beyond the slums, if the lords and ladies of the Red Keep catch wind of a growing movement, no matter how small, it could bring unwanted eyes to his business.

And the Butcher does not like to be seen.

Probably explains why most of us have never seen his face or heard his actual name.

So the orders came down: find the ones spreading these symbols, spreading these stories, this so-called "cult", and silence them.

Permanently.

I glance at the others standing with me. Gold Cloaks by title, but thugs at heart. Corlan, a pig of a man, leans against the wall, picking at his teeth with a dagger. Joss, thin as a reed, his belt weighed down more by coin purses than by his sword.

They don't care about the Stranger. They care that the Butcher's coin flows freely, and if killing a few gutter rats keeps it that way, so be it.

But me? I wish I could say I'm different, that I'm not like them. That I have fought against this corruption since the day I took the Golden mantle, against my father's will.

Yet here I stand, silent, doing nothing.

The Butcher's grip is a noose, and I've let it tighten around my neck for years. Every time I saw a shopkeeper pay his "protection," every time I looked away when a man was dragged into a dark alley and didn't come back, I told myself it wasn't my fight.

What could I do? One honest Gold Cloak couldn't stop a storm.

But now…Now there's a new storm gathering.

The smallfolk are afraid, yes, but there's something else beneath the fear. Something I haven't seen before.

Hope. Hope that this Stranger, whoever or whatever they are, is more than a shadow. More than a symbol.

Hope that they're a reckoning. Not the one Butcher promised to his enemies, but one the downtrodden clings with every fiber of their beings.

And for the first time in years, I feel that old spark in my chest. The one I thought had long since died. The one I thought I had murdered before my defiance got me murdered by my own fellow members of the City's Watch.

Because if the smallfolk can find hope in the Stranger… maybe I can too.

At first, it was just a feeling, a ripple beneath the surface. Something shifting, unseen but undeniable.

Then, three nights ago, the first crack appeared.

We had a lead, or so Corlan claimed, on a man spreading the Stranger's mark through Flea Bottom. An old tanner named Hobb, seen carving the symbol into the door of a butcher's shop. Not the Butcher's shop, but one that helped him dispose of bodies the worst way possible. No evidence with the number of hungry bellies in the slum.

Corlan wanted to make an example of him. Drag Hobb into the street, break his fingers one by one, and let the smallfolk watch, a warning to anyone foolish enough to whisper the Stranger's name.

Corlan's always been like that. Cruel for the sake of it. A brute who wears the gold cloak like a wolf wears sheep's wool, not to protect, but to prey. Joss, on the other hand, is more subtle, but no less dangerous. He's a rat with too many coin purses hanging from his belt, always watching for the next bit of silver to fall his way.

But when we reached the tanner's shop, Hobb was gone. Not fled in panic, not ransacked, just gone. The place was empty, cleaned out with the kind of care you don't see in Flea Bottom. Neat. Orderly. As though he'd packed his life into a sack and vanished into thin air.

The neighbors saw nothing. Heard nothing.

Joss muttered about the Stranger's hand, and Corlan laughed, a hollow, sharp sound that echoed more like a threat than a joke.

I didn't laugh.

Because this wasn't a desperate man running from Gold Cloaks. It was too clean, too precise. The kind of disappearance that doesn't happen without help, real help, from someone pulling strings in the dark.

And it didn't end there.

The next night, a shipment of arms bound for the Butcher's most loyal men, short blades, cudgels, and mail shirts, never reached its drop point. No signs of an ambush. No trail to follow. The cart simply vanished somewhere between the docks and the alley off Ragpicker's Wynd.

Then, the day after, a patrol sent to rough up a few shopkeepers who'd been late with their "protection" was somehow misdirected, sent to the wrong street entirely. By the time they realized the mistake, their targets were long gone.

Corlan blamed sloppy orders from above. Joss grumbled about crossed messages and scared men covering their tracks.

But me? I saw it for what it was. Sabotage. Quiet, steady sabotage.

Not open defiance, that would be met with blood, but a slow, deliberate hand tilting the scales.

And all I could think was: It's him.

Not just a symbol. Not just a whisper. The Stranger was moving.

How else could Hobb slip away so cleanly? How else could the Butcher's supply lines twist and tangle without a single coin changing hands?

It has to be him. Because if it's not… then who?

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

I must be sleepwalking. That's the only explanation.

Because clearly, someone has been making my war against the Butcher's empire a hell of a lot easier, and it sure as hell wasn't me.

Oh, I'd love to take credit for every shipment that vanished, every informant that switched sides, and every guard who ended up chasing his own tail through Flea Bottom… but I don't recall planning all of that. 

A few of those moves were far too clean, too well-timed. Definitely not the kind of flawless sabotage I've been personally fumbling through these past few months.

Let's just say I've had more than one confrontation go sideways, enough that I recently found myself a bit more roguish and rangery than before. 

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ASSASSIN (RANK C-)]

*Your constant practice has sharpened your skills. You have gained a new feature!

[Cunning Strike:] You have developed cunning ways to use your Sneak Attack.

Still experimental. I could feel my less than average Dexterity hampering what would've been awesome tricks like poisoning, tripping and disarming someone mid fight. 

But at least slipping away back into the shadows has gotten easier. All I have to do is make sure no one lives to tell the tale of the child-sized figure wielding daggers.

Lucky me, they've stopped calling me a small shadow and started whispering about a walking skeleton.

[Uncanny Dodge:] Your instincts and reflexes are honed to near-supernatural levels, allowing you to react with lightning speed by reflex, twisting or shifting your body to minimize the impact of an attack and distance it from vital organs.

Funny how getting a knife to the ribs tends to sharpen one's survival instincts.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: RANGER (RANK D)]

*Your constant hunt for better prey and new lands has heightened your predatory instincts. You have gained two new features!

[Deft explorer:] Thanks to your travels, you gain the following benefits: 

*Expertise. Choose one of your skill proficiencies with which you lack Expertise. You gain Expertise in that skill. 

*Languages. You know two languages of your choice.

Unexpected… but far from useless. 

For the Proficiencies to turn into Expertise…. Athletics and Acrobatics were tempting…really, really, REALLY tempting.

But if I ever plan to complete the Instant Dungeon, I needed…Survival.

As for languages… Trade Talk was a no-brainer. The other? Old Tongue. Still hoping to unlock more of this world's magic, even if it means learning from whispers older than most of its gods.

*FIGHTING STYLE 2# (Rank D): You have honed your martial prowess and gained a Fighting Style of your choice. Archery or Two-Weapon Fighting are recommended options. 

With my shortbow long since snapped in half, that left me with my trusty shortsword, daggers, and bone clubs.

So… Two-Weapon Fighting it is. Which, to my surprise, made me ambidextrous. 

Neat.

So…where was I anyway?… oh, right! 

Either I've developed a very efficient case of sleepwalking… or the Spider has finally taken the bait.

And honestly? I was starting to think this plan was too clever by half, threading the needle between too obvious and too subtle, hoping Varys would notice the Butcher's empire appearing to crumble without realizing someone was hoping to use him for their own ends.

It wasn't just about chaos. It was about implying the Butcher's hold wasn't as unshakable as it seemed, a missing shipment here, a rumor of betrayal there, small tremors that suggested something rotten at the core of his operation. 

I didn't need to tear the whole house down myself, I just needed to make Varys think the foundation was already cracking.

Because the Spider, for all his shadowy posturing, likes to fancy himself the realm's hidden protector. He'll slit throats and topple kings if he thinks it serves the greater good. 

And the Butcher… well, the man wasn't just ruling Flea Bottom, he was terrorizing it. His men weren't content with quiet violence. They left corpses where the city could see them, spilled blood over late payments, and even Varys' little birds weren't safe from their blades.

So I counted on this: the Butcher was too loud, too messy, and too bold for Varys to ignore forever.

And judging by the sudden uptick in precisely targeted disruptions, ones I had no hand in, it seems the Spider has decided it's time to pluck this particular fly from his web.

Not that it's all smooth sailing.

Lothar's crew, the assassins and sellswords, have grown increasingly twitchy. Too much blood in the streets means too much attention, and mercenaries don't like attention. 

Mudge's thieves and beggars have gotten bolder too, picking apart the edges of the Butcher's crumbling business like crows over a corpse. 

Even Brunna's trade, the whores and the more herbal addictions of the city, seems to be shifting as her people scramble to secure new protection now that the Butcher's men are too busy watching their own backs.

It's a feeding frenzy. A slow, steady collapse. And all of it, exactly what I wanted.

Well, pretty much exactly. Most importantly was that my identity remained hidden.

Of course, there's the lingering risk that Varys might get a little too curious about the origins of this so-called Stranger movement, that his spiders might start tugging at the wrong threads until they find me at the other end.

Which is why I've gone out of my way to be nothing but smoke and broken glass. No face, no name, just a rumor, a whisper passed from one frightened mouth to another.

Because you can kill a man. But how do you kill a symbol?

And now, finally, after all this… the Butcher himself has come out of hiding.

He's no longer a shadow pulling strings from a distance, he's a stupidly brutal man trying to stop his empire from falling apart.

And for the first time… he's within reach. Within sight.

[KARL TANNER, THE BUTCHER OF FLEA BOTTOM // SWASHBUCKLER // LV: 8]

You gotta be kidding me. Karl Fucking Tanner? The Legend of Gin Alley?

It wasn't a name from the books, I knew that much. This was something… different. Something that hadn't existed in the world George R.R. Martin had written, but instead, a monster born from the show.

A killer forged in the filth of Flea Bottom. An enforcer turned legend. A man who climbed the bloodstained ladder of the crime syndicate with nothing but daggers and an unyielding thirst for violence.

And now, he was back in the open.

The first night I set foot in Flea Bottom, Karl had been returning to the city, tending to "business" in another city, trying to salvage whatever crumbling influence his syndicate still held beyond King's Landing.

But my silent war had drawn him thin even in his home turf.

I hadn't just set fire to his operations, I'd set fire to his control. His lieutenants were on the verge of tearing each other apart, his men were dying in the streets, and his reputation, his power, was starting to crack.

Karl Tanner had stepped out of his shadows to put an end to it. And that was exactly what I wanted.

Because now, the Butcher wasn't some unseen ghost haunting Flea Bottom. 

He was a man. A man I could kill.

————————————————————————

LOTHAR'S POV

Flea Bottom's heart doesn't beat, it thrums, like an old, half-dead drum. 

You can feel the pulse of it in the air, the quiet murmur of danger waiting to break loose. The entire damn place feels like it's holding its breath, like someone's about to light a fire and watch it burn.

And the Butcher's the one holding the match.

Karl Tanner, once a ghost, now a fool, doesn't realize what he's become. For years, he kept his empire in the shadows, letting his name slither through the streets like a snake, feared by every man and woman with a heartbeat. 

"The Butcher".The next coming of the Stranger before this damned cult began pitting the God of Death himself against us. The one you whispered about in dark corners, too scared to say his name out loud.

But now? Now he's walking the streets like a damn peacock, strutting through Flea Bottom in broad daylight, thinking the power of his blades will still turn men to stone.

Pathetic.

I can feel it in my bones, people are looking at him differently now. And it's not fear in their eyes. No, it's curiosity. It's the sick pleasure of seeing the monster revealed.

They all thought he was untouchable, but look at him now. Flesh and blood. Just another man stumbling through his empire like a drunkard. And that's the problem. When you've spent too long hiding behind shadows, when you've convinced everyone you're some kind of specter, you forget what it's like to be human. 

You forget that when the mask comes off, people start to see you for what you really are.

Just a man.

And that's exactly what Karl Tanner is now, just another man walking to his death.

But for all his blundering, Karl isn't alone. There are vultures circling, and I'm one of them.

I can feel Mudge's eyes on me whenever our paths cross in the alleys, calculating, waiting for the right moment. The greasy little bastard's been sniffing around like a dog looking for scraps ever since the Butcher started to falter. He's one of the first to make his move, planning his own rise as if the Butcher's corpse will somehow open the gates of Flea Bottom wide enough to let him walk in like a king.

And Brunna, God's be damned, she's no better. I've caught her watching me, too, the woman who thinks a few whispers and a poison vial are enough to take down a man like Tanner. She's smart, sure, but she's so eager to get her hands on the reins, it's like she can already taste the power.

But none of us are fools.

We all know that the Butcher's downfall means blood will flow. And we all want our piece. But while Mudge's crawling like a rat, and Brunna's plotting from the shadows, I know the truth, I won't just survive this… I'll thrive.

I've got my own plans. I always have.

I've been watching Karl, waiting for him to make the mistake that'll cost him his life. That little stroll he took down Ragpicker's Lane this morning? A spectacle. A declaration of weakness. He might as well have handed over his throat on a silver platter.

The streets are whispering about him. Even those too terrified to speak his name are starting to mock him behind his back. And that's the problem with showing yourself too much, it takes the teeth out of your own myth.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, standing outside The Rat's Nest, acting like he's still in control. He meets a few of his men with a stiff, forced smile, slapping their shoulders like a father to his sons. But it's hollow.

He's sweating. His grip on the knife hidden in his belt is too tight. The ghosts are coming for him, and he doesn't even know it.

But tonight's the night. Tonight's when the spark catches.

The Butcher's empire isn't crumbling because of some great enemy. It's rotting from within, and we're the ones eating at its bones.

I know Mudge and Brunna are both hoping to play the same game. They think when Tanner finally falls, they'll be the ones left standing, holding the crown made of blood and ashes. But they're wrong. There's only room for one, and I've spent too long in this game to let anyone else take my seat.

I'm not here to play fair.

The Butcher thinks he can run from the truth, but he can't escape it. And when it comes crashing down, it'll be me watching from the shadows, ready to take what's mine.

Karl Tanner may have built his empire on fear, but fear's a fickle thing. And once it starts to fade, once his name is nothing but a whisper on the wind, he'll realize too late that the real power has always been in the hands of those who know how to pull the strings.

And I've always been the one pulling the strings.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

The breaking begins. The city's pulse quickens, and I can feel the shift in the air, the storm brewing long before the first drop of rain. The Butcher's kingdom is finally crumbling, and it's all coming apart faster than I could've hoped.

Flea Bottom is alive with chaos.

It's not just whispers now. It's the snap of crossbows in the dark, the roar of flames licking through timber, the sharp crack of bone against stone. Explosions.

Flea Bottom is devouring itself.

Karl Tanner's kingdom, built from blood and fear, is rotting from within. The lieutenants who once propped him up as their king have stopped whispering about betrayal. They've acted.

And now, the streets bleed.

Smoke chokes the alleys, a sick blend of burning wood, boiling tar, and the unmistakable stench of charred flesh. Mudge's men raid the safehouses with cruel efficiency, striking fast and hard, and, more importantly, they know exactly where to strike.

No one trusts anyone anymore. Not even Tanner's own people.

In the shadows, unseen but ever-present, Varys' hand guides the City Watch. They do nothing. They stand at the edges of the carnage, blank-faced and still, watching Flea Bottom tear itself apart. It's not neglect. It's permission. This is his work too, the delicate dance of sabotage and subterfuge.

But the true artistry isn't just pulling the strings, it's knowing when to cut them, letting the marionettes collapse into their own ruin. The Watch's silence speaks louder than any sword.

Flea Bottom is at war with itself.

Every alley echoes with the clash of steel, the screams of betrayal, the frantic shouts of men who know they're fighting a battle already lost. The Butcher's empire is no longer an empire, it's a battlefield. A graveyard waiting to be filled.

And from the shadows, I watch.

It's where I'm most comfortable, unseen, but always present. Not as a man, but as a ghost. The city burns, and I remain distant. Detached. I've played my part, but I'm not here to simply kill Karl Tanner. No, I'm here to break him. To reduce him to nothing.

Every whisper, every blade in the dark, every torch set to a rooftop, all carefully orchestrated. Mudge's thieves, Brunna's poison, Lothar's sellswords, Varys' quiet hand guiding the Watch, pieces on a board, moving exactly as I want them to.

But it's not enough for Karl to fall. I want him to understand he's fallen. I want him to feel the weight of it, to watch his kingdom rot from the inside until there's nothing left but ashes and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

And so I wait.

————————————————————————

MUDGE'S

The old tannery stinks of piss and leather, but tonight it smells of greed.

I was a rat among rats, leading my pack of cutthroats and pickpockets through the Butcher's hidden caches. My grubby fingers pull gold and silver from old barrels, my men rip open chests, and the floor is littered with the gutted remains of Karl's secret hoards.

"Move it, you dogs!" I shouts, in my rare moments of assertiveness, shoving a scrawny boy toward a pile of stolen finery. "The Butcher's a dead man walking—his coin belongs to us now!"

I'm no fool. I know Karl won't go down easy, but when he does, I plan to be long gone, pockets heavy with stolen gold and a new life far from Flea Bottom's filth. Perhaps even across the Narrow Sea.

My gang strips the place bare, but the tension is thick. My men aren't loyal, they never were. They follow because of fear, because of coin.

And now the fear I had borrowed from the Butcher is slipping.

As I fumble with a small lockbox, I fail to notice Garrick, a wiry man who's been part of my crew for years, watching me with cold eyes. Garrick, the one who always kept the books, the one who found Karl's hidden stashes for me. The one who never got a word of thanks.

"You're taking too much, Mudge!" Garrick finally says, his voice too steady.

I froze at the sudden defiance, the money at my reach affecting my better judgment. "What?"

"You'll leave nothing for the rest of us!" Garrick says, stepping closer.

My fingers tighten on the lockbox. "I take what I please. I'm the one who led us here, you ungrateful shit."

Garrick's knife flashes faster than I can react, slicing through the strap of my coin purse. The sound of coins hitting the floor echoes louder than any battle cry.

The others stare at the gold, then at me.

"Don't—" I start, but then they're on me.

Stumbling back, pushing past my men, scrambling for the door. My dagger is in my hand, but I don't swing it, I use it to cut through the leather curtain blocking the exit.

"Traitorous bastards!" I howled, shoving a boy aside and running into the night.

Behind me, Garrick doesn't give chase. He doesn't have to.

I was already bleeding from a deep cut on my leg, my hoarded coin is gone, and the pack is already tearing through what's left of the loot.

My reign as the rat king was over before it even started, as I scurried now…alone and afraid.

————————————————————————

BRUNNA'S POV

The brothel isn't a place of pleasure tonight, it's a battlefield masked by silk and perfume.

Sitting on my high-backed chair, watching the Butcher's men writhe on the floor, choking on poisoned wine, clawing at their throats as my girls slit the survivors' bellies open with razors hidden in their sleeves.

My lips curl into a smile. "Karl thought he could rule with a sword." I murmured. "But soft curves in the right places kill just as easily."

The brothel was mine now, more than in just name and appearances. Karl's men were dying like dogs at my feet.

But I never noticed Salla, the silent girl who scrubs the floors, who brings the wine, who cleans up the blood. The girl I've slapped for spilling drinks, who I've ignored when the men touched her without paying.

Salla stands behind me, holding a shard of broken glass in her hand, and I turn too late.

The glass digs into my neck, not clean like a knife, but jagged and violent. Blood gushes down my chest, soaking my silks.

My hand flies to my throat, gasping, choking. I stumble from her chair, eyes wide as I stare at Salla. "You stupid little—"

Salla doesn't speak. She just watches me die, her face blank.

The other girls don't move to stop her. Some even smile.

My kingdom of silk and whispers collapsed in silence, just as I had built it.

————————————————————————

LOTHAR'S

I don't wait for the Butcher to fall, I mean to kill Karl myself.

The streets were a war zone. Fires burn unchecked, gangs clash at every corner, and blood spills into the gutters. I lead my men through the chaos, cutting down anyone loyal to Karl.

"He's finished!" I roar, my axe splitting a man's shoulder. "Karl's a dead man! Take his head, and Flea Bottom is ours!"

My men fought like rabid dogs, not for loyalty, but for the promise of power. I offer them a future without the Butcher, a future where he rules.

But Karl Tanner is not dead yet.

The Butcher moves through the smoke like a shadow, half drunk, half mad, but still dangerous. His blades sing, slicing through my best men like a butcher cleaving meat.

And I?

I watched Karl fight, my teeth clenched. Despite my desire to put an end to him myself, I don't dare face him head-on…not yet. 

Only the Butcher could call me coward for not facing him, but after he was dead, no one living would dare to defy me.

Tonight didn't need to be about winning. I could make do with just weakening the Butcher, making him bleed so that the next time, I could finish him.

But my ambition blinded me to the danger behind me, the danger of using my men as expendable for my own advantage.

Jory, a young thug with a broken nose, the one who always carried my spare axe, the one I used to kick when he was too slow, stood too close.

"Keep moving!" I snarled, not even looking back.

Jory doesn't move. He raises my own spare axe.

"For the Stranger." Jory whispers as the blade bites into my back, splitting the gap of my armor and flesh.

Staggering forward, I gasped. Whirling around, wild-eyed, but Jory is already stepping back, melting into the crowd of fighting men.

Another blade finds my neck. Another slices my thigh.

My own men, those I have thought too scared to cross me, were tearing me apart.

I drop my axe. Blood pours from my mouth as I stare at the faces around me, none loyal, none kind.

"You…" I croak, before the final blow sends me to my knees.

Death takes me with a snarl on my lips, dreaming of a crown I never came close to wearing.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

In the aftermath, I wait until Karl's men are too thin, not just scattered, but splintered. Fighting not only their rivals but each other. His army is a carcass picked clean by its own teeth.

The streets run red, and the Butcher's lieutenants are little more than corpses littering the alleys.

Their own underlings, the men they once ruled with iron fists, have turned on them. They've become disciples of the Stranger, slipping into their dead masters' roles with quiet, unsettling devotion. The Butcher's inner circle didn't just die, they were replaced. 

Not by stronger men, but by shadows. No one noticed. No one saw it coming.

It's a beautiful thing, watching it all burn. Karl doesn't know what's happening. He doesn't realize his empire has already been gutted from within by the very people who once swore fealty to him.

But that's how it works. Trust is a fragile thing. Once it's shattered, there's no picking up the pieces, only blood and bone and ruin.

And now Karl's on the streets.

Sword in hand. Blood on his face, some of it his own, some of it not. He's barking orders like a man who still thinks his voice commands obedience.

But the truth is plain. He's a cornered animal now, desperate and weak, his bravado as hollow as the corpses rotting in the gutters. The Butcher of Flea Bottom is no longer a king. He's a dying myth clawing at the last threads of power.

His men are broken. Those few who haven't fled stand frozen, too tired, too frightened to follow him.

And that's when I move.

I step out of the shadows, disguised but no longer hidden, just long enough for him to see me. To recognize me.

His eyes go wide, not with fear, not yet, but with something worse. Realization.

The moment he understands that every blade in his back, every torch set to his kingdom, was placed there by my hand.

I don't speak. I don't need to.

I let him see me for what I am, not a man, not a prince, not even a ghost. Just a force. A shadow stretching long across the ruins of his world.

And that's when he knows.

He's done.

I waited for him to bleed out all that defiance, all that stubbornness. I wanted him to drown in the wreckage of what he once was. I wanted him to scream, to shout, to understand that this wasn't just a defeat, it was a dismantling.

And as he falls, it won't just be the end of Karl Tanner. It'll be the end of an era. Flea Bottom will belong to those who know how to take what's theirs.

And I will have taken it all.

The lieutenants thought themselves clever, breaking from Karl, grasping for their own piece of his crumbling kingdom. Mudge, Brunna, Lothar… all dead or dying, not by Karl's hand, but by the very men and women they once ruled.

The Stranger's hand moves through the shadows, unseen yet undeniable. His followers slip into power like a blade sliding between ribs. Silent. Certain.

And now Karl Tanner is alone. His lieutenants gone. His kingdom burning. The Butcher of Flea Bottom is no longer a king. He's just a man. A cornered animal, bleeding and furious.

And I was the one standing before him, not as an assassin ready to murder him, but as a hunter that has marked him as my prey, ready to cut the last thread holding his wretched life together.

————————————————————————

KARL TANNER'S POV

The world's gone to shit.

My kingdom, my empire, my FUCKING LEGEND, crumbled not just with a bang but with a thousand quiet cuts that bled it dry. I can still taste the betrayal on my tongue, bitter as old blood. Mudge. Brunna. Lothar. All those crawling rats I fed, clothed, made.

They scratched at the roots of my throne, and now Flea Bottom is burning for their incompetence and stupidity.

Wherever I went the air was thick with smoke and death. Bodies litter the alleys, not just my enemies but my own men, throats slit, bellies opened, their vacant eyes staring up at the sky like the gods themselves had come down to rip them apart.

But it wasn't the gods. It was that damn Cult.

I don't know their names, no one does. The rumors say that they follow their God, the Stranger. A shadow that slithered through my ranks, rotting my kingdom from the inside. They rarely killed with their own hands, they didn't have to. Through whispering to Mudge, slipping poison into Brunna's ear, feeding Lothar's greed. They played my men like puppets and let them tear each other apart.

And now, here I am… clearing this mess alone.

My blades's heavy in my hand, slick with blood, some of it mine, most of it not. My arm aches from the last fight, three men against me, and all three of them dead now. 

I'm fast. I'm strong. Deadlier than anyone. I'm Karl Tanner, Butcher of Flea Bottom.

More powerful than whoever these bastards think they are.

I spit on the ground, stepping over a corpse, one of Brunna's men, judging by the green sash tied to his arm. Bastard never saw me coming.

The alley ahead was quiet, too quiet. The smoke clings to the air, swirling like it's alive, curling around the broken crates and shattered barrels. A ruined part of Flea Bottom, long abandoned even before tonight.

I move forward, my steps careful now. I know a trap when I smell one. The hairs on my neck prickle, and my free hand hovers near my daggers.

They are here. Watching. I don't know how I know, I just do.

The ghosts never show themselves, but I can feel them now.

A sliver of movement, a flicker of a cloaked figure shifting in the shadows. Too small to be a man, but the shape doesn't register as human. Not to me.

Not anymore. The damn fear twists it. Warps it.

It's not a person hiding in the dark, it's something else. Something wrong. It's the Stranger itself, cloaked in black, its face hidden beneath the hood, watching me with empty, hollow eyes.

The air feels colder, the sounds of the city fading into a dull, lifeless hush.

And I realize… I'm prey.

I snarl, trying to push the fear back down, but it sinks its claws into my spine. My world narrows to that shadow, that thing, and the weight of Its silent gaze.

It doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just waits.

And then—snap! The ground shifts beneath me.

A thorny whip curls around my ankle and before I can blink, I'm yanked forward. My foot slides across the slick stones, and I stumble, just enough to send me into the next trap.

A flash of steel, a hidden blade tied to a spring, lashes out from the wall.

I twist at the last second, but it catches my side, slicing through armor and flesh. Pain flares up my ribs, hot and sharp, and I stagger back, blood already seeping into my tunic.

I snarl again, slashing wildly at the air, but there's no one there.

The traps are layered, not just one or two, but a web of them. Hidden snares, rigged crossbows and bear traps waiting to trigger.

I'm caged.

And still, the Stranger watches. He hasn't moved. He doesn't need to. He was hunting me.

It's not a fight, it's a game. A slow, cruel game where I'm bled, step by step, until I'm too weak to stand.

I lash out again, cutting a tripwire before it can send another blade into my chest. I stagger forward, sweat burning my eyes, pain crawling up my side, my own blood leaving a trail behind me.

The Stranger tilts his head, a slight motion, almost curious.

And that's when I snap.

"COME OUT AND FIGHT ME!" I roar, my voice cracking against the dead walls. "No more tricks, no more traps — FACE ME, YOU FUCKING COWARD!"

Silence. Then, a whisper of movement from somewhere else. The cloak was a decoy!

Suddenly I sense movement approaching me from behind, too fast, too close, I lash out again, and my dagger sinks into flesh. Not the Stranger.

A boy. For the briefest second, the illusion shatters.

The shadow is small. Too small. Another cloaked figure no taller than my waist, blood soaking his side where I struck him… a child, not a reaper.

He should be screaming. Crying. But he's not.

But it doesn't matter, not now. Because the trap has already sprung.

My foot slips, not on stone, but on a patch of slick oil spread across the alley. My balance vanishes, and suddenly, I'm falling, arms flailing, blade clattering from my hand.

I hit the ground hard, ribs screaming from the impact, the pain blinding me for a heartbeat.

And then the boy, the ghost, is on me. I swing a fist, but he's too fast, or maybe I'm too slow now.

He doesn't fight like a boy, not wild or clumsy. He moves like a hunter, cold, methodical. A weird knife flashes, my thigh, another cut, my shoulder. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to bleed me more.

He's bleeding me. Chipping at my health. A stalking predator wearing the skin of a defenseless prey.

And then, the final blow. The boy's impossibly sharp knife drives into my throat, quick, precise. No hesitation.

I choke, the world going dark, the pain distant now. The last thing I see isn't the boy, not really.

It's the Stranger.

Standing over me, his hood still drawn, his empty eyes watching the life drain from Karl Tanner, Butcher of Flea Bottom.

I was never fighting a boy. I was fighting death itself.

And death always won. It was just a matter of time.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV 

Despite months of preparation, that was too close for my liking.

[HP:1]

'Bastard!' I growl through clenched teeth. 'Even with a Valyrian Steel weapon, the daggers in his hands feel far more dangerous.' A bitter chuckle slips out despite the pain. 'Heh, Jon Snow had to shove Longclaw into the back of his head.'

The alley falls silent again. I don't move for a long time, not until Karl's body stops twitching, not until the blood pooling beneath him starts to cool.

My side burns. The dagger found its mark, a shallow gash just above my hip. Painful, but thanks to Uncanny Dodge, not fatal. 

It'll scar. The first of many, I suspect.

I pull my cloak tighter, pressing a hand to the wound. 

[MEDICINE CHECK SUCCEED!]

The last thing I need is anyone asking how a pampered prince came by such an injury. This isn't a tournament scar, or one from some noble duel. It's a hunter's scar, the kind you earn from a trap, from a kill.

And for the first time, I feel it, a shift, subtle but undeniable. Something deep within me stirs.

A connection.

I've become more than a ghost in the shadows. More than a whisper moving pieces on the board.

[QUEST COMPLETED: EXPLORE THE GUTTER!]

[COMPLETE YOUR TOUR AROUND FLEA BOTTOM IN ONE PIECE]

[MAKE THE PEOPLE KNOW THAT SOMEONE IS FIGHTING CRIME, BUT DON'T LET THEM SEE YOU]

[LEARN WHO IS THE BUTCHER]

[DON'T GET CAUGHT BY THE GOLD CLOAKS]

[SECRET CONDITION MET: TAKE OVER FLEA BOTTOM!]

[REWARD: PROGRESS OVER YOUR ROGUE AND RANGER CLASSES]

To be honest, I thought I had already completed this Quest by the time I learned Karl Tanner's identity as the infamous Butcher, and that I've already leveled up both classes. 

But who's complaining? Come to daddy!

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: RANGER SUBCLASS - HUNTER (RANK D+)]

*You stalk prey in the wilds and elsewhere, using

your abilities as a Hunter to protect nature and

people everywhere from forces that would destroy

them.

A grin tugs at my lips. Officially a Hunter now. And the game's only just begun.

[Hunter's Lore:] You can call on the forces of nature to reveal certain strengths and weaknesses of your Favored Enemy. 

Neat. Still takes a bit of commitment to lock onto a single target, especially when I'm surrounded, but it's progress. Maybe one day, I'll sharpen it into something deadlier, my own Deadeye ability.

[Hunter's Prey:] As a skilled hunter, you adapt your tactics to the situation at hand, each tailored to exploit specific weaknesses in your enemies. After brief pauses, you can switch between these techniques, allowing you to prepare for whatever challenges lie ahead.

It'll take an hour to switch between my two new hunting styles, but the versatility's worth it.

Targeting wounds was perfect for tearing into a tougher opponent who won't just stand still while I chip away at their HP.

Rapid strike was for when I'm outnumbered, redirecting my momentum to cut or shoot down another target the moment I land a hit.

[NEW SPELLS LEARNED! ANIMAL FRIENDSHIP // LONGSTRIDER]

Hmm…Animal Friendship? What an interesting name. I wonder what it does. Heh.

Anyway, I will have to test it later.

As for Longstrider, I must confess that the extra minor boost to my speed wasn't as bombastic as it might've sound, but boy let me tell you that the difference was felt, especially when Dashing.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ASSASSIN (RANK C)]

*Your constant practice has sharpened your skills. You have gained a new feature!

[Expertise:] You gain Expertise in two of your skill proficiencies of your choice.

Athletics and Acrobatics! Now!

[STR: 8 (-1)]

*(EXP) ATHLETICS: +3

[DEX: 8 (-1)]

*(EXP) ACROBATICS: +3

A low, satisfied laugh escapes me. It's still not enough, my physical stats are a far cry from where I want them to be, but this? This is a start.

And as if that wasn't enough…

[CONGRATULATIONS: YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A NEW FEAT: SKULKER]

*You are an expert at slinking through shadows. You gain the following benefits:

Ability Score Increase. Increase your Dexterity score by 1. 

Blindsight. You have Blindsight with a range of 10 feet. 

Fog of War. You exploit the distractions of battle, gaining advantage on any Dexterity (Stealth) check you make when hiding during combat. 

Sniper. If you make an attack while hidden and it misses, it doesn't reveal your location.

[DEXTERITY: 8->9 (-1) CHILD'S BODY PENALTY STILL ACTIVE! (+1) Ability Score Pending]

Sure, finally raising my Dexterity felt pointless at the moment, but I was more than happy to improve what I was already getting pretty good with.

Hiding during combat would certainly come in handy the more bold I got to face groups of enemies. And not betraying my position after a botched Sneak Attack, that certainly can help keep me alive even when luck was against me.

But the second benefit I had yet to mention….Blindsight. 

After months of squinting through dark alleyways, stepping carefully from torchlight into pitch-black corners… I finally have the reprieve I've been praying for.

At first, I didn't notice the change. It slips into my awareness like a shadow blending into another, silent, seamless.

Then, it hits me.

The world sharpens. Not through my eyes, but through everything else.

The darkness isn't empty anymore. It has weight. Shape. It breathes.

I don't see the alley walls, I feel them. The air presses differently against my skin where stone looms close. I sense the jagged edges of a broken crate to my right, not by sight, but by how the breeze curls and fractures around it.

Sound morphs from mere noise into a map, dripping water from a leaking pipe, the soft scrape of a rat's claw against dirt, a nearby rattle of chains somewhere deeper in the mess of traps I've prepared for my final confrontation with the Butcher. Each sound flares in my mind like tiny sparks, sketching a silent outline of my surroundings.

And the smells, the sour tang of old sweat, the metallic bite of rusted iron, the damp rot clinging to the stone walls, all distinct now, each thread weaving into a sensory tapestry I didn't even know existed.

It's not magic. It's not some supernatural gift. It's the world itself, stripped of distractions, raw, unfiltered.

I close my eyes. The darkness doesn't blind me.

The alley still lives behind my eyelids, a rough, three-dimensional map drawn by touch, sound, and scent. I feel the faintest vibration of footsteps right ahead. Slow. Measured. A shift of weight as someone leans against a wall, probably resting a blade against his leg. His breathing is shallow, controlled, his armor faintly clinking when he adjusts his stance.

I don't have to see him to know exactly where he is.

I move, not with hesitation, but with confidence. Every step calculated, every motion fluid. My hand finds my weapon by instinct alone.

To anyone watching, I must look like a phantom, slipping through the pitch-black alleys of Flea Bottom as if the night itself whispers directions into my ear.

But it's not magic. It's me. The world has always spoken. I just finally learned how to listen.

Karl Tanner's legend ends here.

Mine… is only beginning.