'What good is alchemy if we can't turn shit to gold?'
-Taken from 'The Early Musings of Prince Rhaenar' by Brien Flowers
><>
They rode through the streets of the city~
The prince led with a particular swagger, acknowledging the onlookers with a nod as they passed.
Most of the adults were accustomed to Rhaenar's presence, and with the added influx of tourists, the citizens of King's Landing played it casual, as if such a celebrity was normal. Shaking their heads at their uncultured visitors.
But the children, with wide eyes and gawked face, lined the streets whenever they caught wind of the procession. Such attention always made the king's guard uneasy.
"We should have brought more men," Ser Lorent said. His hand lingered on the hilt of his blade.
Horse hooves echoed leisurely. Rhaenar appeared even more relaxed.
"A large escort in your own city is unbecoming," Rhaenar said, "Times have changed, Ser. You need not worry about the particulars of my security. All you must do is focus on what lay ahead."
His fellow kings guard backed him up. "Such confidence," Ser Steffon said, "What would Ser Ryam say?"
A remembering curved on Rhaenar's lip, "Ser Ryam would call me a fool with a death wish. If only he was here to see us now."
Brien listened to the conversation in front of him, amazed at how oblivious Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon were to the world.
They knew nothing of the network of alley weavers slinking through the underbelly, information shared in constant flow. They didn't see the soft gleam from Rhaenari archers stationed on rooftop.
Then out of nowhere, Prince Rhaenar spurred his steed into action. He sped through the cobbled streets in a silvery blur.
The Kingsguard duo hurried after him. The rest followed with less urgency.
When they caught up, Rhaenar was hailing a group of knights.
Brien recognized some of the banners of lords from the Dornish Marches, each distinguished in martial might.
However, it was a young knight of Dornish complexion that caught Rhaenar's attention.
Coal-black hair slicked back, with deep-set brown eyes and a dashing chin.
Rhaenar rode up to the knight, and the pair clasped hands in that familiar way soldiers tend to do.
"I thought that was you, Criston. Welcome, Ser."
Ser Criston was bewildered, "You honor me, my prince. I'm surprised you remember me."
"Nonsense! How could I forget your skill with the morningstar?"
Ser Criston scratched his head awkwardly, a single curl hung over his eye. "I've got much better. Do you recall what you told me when you left Blackhaven?"
Rhaenar scanned his mind. He did indeed spend some time with Lord Dondarrion at his keep, and indeed he took interest in Criston, son of one of Lord Dondarrion's stewards, for his sharp reflexes and fearless riding skills.
They would have talked about many things or nothing at all, who knows. Perhaps Rhaenar told a funny joke?
Rhaenar tilted his head, "Not word for word exactly."
Ser Criston beamed with pride and chivalry, "You told me 'Knights from the capital are green as summer's grass. Should you seek a higher purpose, go there.'"
It did sound like something Rhaenar would say. He smiled, "And here you are. That's the kind of noble spirit this land is about. Service. Honor. Higher purpose."
Suddenly, Rhaenar was uplifted.
"How inspired! My heart tells me that many options will open after you prove yourself in the tourney. I can't wait to see where your spirit leads. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Ser Criston could only say, "Yes. Thank you. Good day, my prince," in the way commoners respond to high lords out of habit, surprised they were addressed in the first place.
He watched like an idiot as Rhaenar and company rode onward.
Brien chuckled as he passed. Many knights in the realm may be green as grass, but in the capital, Ser Criston was just as verdant.
'A conversation with the Prince when he's on business is probably not the best first introduction for the poor fellow,' Brien thought.
.
..
…
..
.
Their path led them through Fishmonger's Square and out of the Muddy Gate.
Once outside the city, they traced the coast to the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where the entrance — or in this case, the exit — to the sewers was found.
Brien wrinkled his nose as he beheld the surprisingly large exit, designed for waste to flow in a central stream, with footpaths on either side for movement.
Waste, or some strange liquid he cared not to confirm, dripped from the curved ceiling from time to time.
"We're going in there?" Brien said ruefully.
Rhaenar chuckled, "I commend your enthusiasm."
Then, something absolutely bizarre occurred.
Brien squinted his eyes and could almost make out figures emerging from the darkness of the sewer tunnel.
No, wait, they were people! They strode like tough thugs and wore terrifying black masks — birdlike, with curved beaks and round eyes.
Rhaenar stood on his toes for a moment. "There they are!"
Out they came — thickly clothed men in bird masks, all clad in black.
It seemed to Brien like some sort of queer bird cult version of the Night's Watch mixed with duties of sewer upkeep.
The Sewer Watch?
But before Brien could entertain the strange implications of an ancient order based on waste management, the foremost birdman took off his mask, revealing a face Brien recognized.
"Prince Rhaenar."
Though he was not in his legion captain attire, Brien recognized the voice of Dirty Douglas.
Douglas stood there with helmet cupped under his armpit, a traumatized stare that looked right past you.
"Captain," Rhaenar said, "What news?"
"We don't need Hickory," Douglas said, "The buildup ain't due to damage. All it needs is old-fashioned effort."
"To shovel the waste along?" Rhaenar said, slightly confused.
Douglas shrugged, "Or push it. I don't know, our boys can't tell this muck from that. The gutter rats say the pipes haven't had attention for a while. Not since the Old King died."
Rhaenar placed hand on chin and hummed, "They say the King shits and the Hand wipes. I wonder why Otto has neglected this issue?"
Douglas spat and snorted, "Don't blame him. Shit's a dirty business."