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[h3][b][color=fff200]Westeros, King's Landing, The Salty Clam[/color][/b][/h3]

“Ah the city,” a voice said, coarse like gravel. A snort and deep breath followd. “The aroma of civilisation is truly potent.” The air was heavy, lathered with the scents of a large urban conglomeration. “The delicious fragrance of boiled cabbage does assault one’s nostrils, not to mention the salted fish that harries us,” the voice continued evenly. “Yet, the characteristic olfactory accent is also created by the effects of bodily functions, carried out in the most random of places. I’ve never understood why we so ignore the need for latrines and sanitation.” The man knew that in Essos, several cities had been equipped with extensive plumbing to carry the filth and dirty out to the waterways to be disposed of.

The city stunk of cabbage, fish, shit and piss.

Yet, stench was not the only thing impregnating the city air, it was filled with sound - the sound of thousands upon thousands of throats, joined by the racket of bovine, ovine and anserine origins. Women squabbled, children bawled, men shouted, merchants bickered and priests complained.

The man performing the soliloquy concerning odour and sound, stood atop a wooden balcony overlooking a muddy street – one of many in the city, seeing as only a few were cobbled. Strings and ropes connected the houses, most with flint roofs, on either side of the street in a random pattern, somewhat reminiscent of a spider-web, upon which a wide variety of garments were hung in order to dry.
 
To the far end, the radiant disk of the sun was creeping towards the bay, turning the water’s surface into liquid gold intersected by the long shadows from canvas sails belonging to ships and fishing boats returning home.
 
King's Landing was the trade capital of the South, a city that had sprawled up like a mushroom in the wake of Aegon's construction of the Aegonfort, a wooden fortress that had turned into the red stone monstrosity the world knew as the Red Keep.

“The city is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, nostalgia, paradox, a dream and a nightmare. King's Landing, young as it is, is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped stone, cracked windows and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, eateries, brasseries, bordellos and whore houses, and little crowded victual-shops, workshops, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are,” as the man was wont to say, “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,” by which he meant everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing. Perspective was blurry in the city.

“Of course, Ser,” a hawkish cohort exclaimed. He was a short fellow but lanky, with a long downward-curved nose and floppy ears and thin hair. His length impaired him from properly overlooking the city’s vista, limiting his view to the brick chimneys spewing black columns of smoke towards the sky.

Willem sighed. Eloquence was wasted on his gnomish assistant, and displaying it in this manner was merely vanity for his own tongue. He had retreated from the Red Keep in the wake of the Stark arrival, for while he was uninvolved in Aegon II's death, he was far from innocent. The accountant had gone through a lot of effort to leave his affairs as clean as a new vellum of parchment.

"My lord Morningwood," his assistant said impishly. "There is someone calling on you."

"What? Who is it?" Willem demanded to know, wheeling on his cane.

"He did not say."

"Fine. Send him to the suite."

Two sets of heavy steps proceeded the arrival of the 'he' sent up to Morningwood's suite. Both were figures tall enough, though one had a clear handful of inches on the other. Both had been silent and statuesque in the face of the temptations of the Salty Clam's first floor. Though by a mere glance, it was easy to understand why:

They wore the black mail and gold cloaks of the King's Landing City Watch. And while any King's Landing whore knew that the Gold Cloaks were anything but focused on the purity of their purpose, the two waiting for Morningwood to receive them were all but blind to the women prancing about them as they waited for the call. One wore a bastard sword on a black leather belt, and the other a short sword.

It was the slightly taller Watchman, he with the bastard sword, that stopped just outside the suite door before yanking it open, and ensuring it was Morningwood waiting on them. At least, ensuing the man waiting in the suite matched the description of Morningwood he'd been given.

When satisfied, the first Watchman stepped further into the suite, allowing the second to step into the room. The second Watchman pulled at the half-helm covering key bits of skull and face and brain, a hand going into the golden hair that had been hidden under the half-helm, unpinning the blonde silken strands and letting them fall free about armored shoulders in half-curls that glittered every time daylight struck them.

Celena Lannister smiled, her purposely dirtied face being wiped off with the end of the gold cloak she wore. "Hi." Beyond the smile and the single word, the woman who had been disguised as a man gave nothing.

She only stared at Morningwood with big, round, green eyes. Eyes that showed no share of the amusement that sparked the smile; only shadow and light and the intensity of a hunting lioness in the dark.

"Lord Morningwood," she began, before immediately motioning to the other Watchman, "may I present Ser Olyvar of House Condon. Grew up hearing so many stories about the South, he had to run away from home and come join the Mummer's Show."

The Knight chuckled, seemingly amused by the possibly (probably) made-up origin tale of the Northern knight the golden haired woman had spun without so much as hesitation or hint of falsehood. "I am.........well, you know who I am, judging by what I've been told about you by those that watch from shadow and silence."

Celena's smile gave way to a more serious expression upon her face. It would become very obvious, very quickly, that Celena had come to discuss business. And nothing else.

"As the Stark spymaster, I put together a list of names for arrest. You were not included on that list, because word on these shit-smelling streets is that you might have an account of what happened the night the former King died. I would hear it, and see how it differs from other accounts. If you would decline me..." Celena gave a tiny shrug, and looked back to the Knight for a breath, before those green eyes hit Morningwood again. "...then I would be forced to trust these other accounts, accounts that put you physically in the plot to poison a King. I'd much rather give you the carrot of whatever you want, than bother with that unpleasentness."

There Lena the Lioness drew silent, leaned back into the chair she had settled in, and waited.

Morningwood answered the revelation with the arching of a brow and the parting of his lips to leer uncomfortably. Goldcloaks he could handle, he owned quite a lot of them too by favour or purse, but Celena Lannister was an entirely different article. "Not looking for work then? I believe you would be expertly able to teach my girls a thing or two." He joked, stalling for some time to think this development through. 

The Condon fellow looked capable enough, tall and wide across the chest. A knighted Northerner was as rare as snow in Dorne. How and why he was in Celena's employ was still a guess, though they likely had met on the journey south to answer the call to war. Willem glanced over their weapons, still sheathed fortunately, for the Reachman did not really like his chances if they were to be bared. There was some muscle in the Salty Clam, but they were used to dealing with drunk patrons and abusive thugs, not these two... rarities.

Willem waddled to a chair and clicked his cane against the floorboards as he sat down. "I am sure I can find Ser Olyvar an appropriate position in the Mummer's Show," he said with a wink. "You can sit if you want to." He knew how tense these characters could be, but he was not about to make any sudden movements. The fact Celena was here incognito, sans obvious threat suggested there was none... from her. It meant she still saw a use for him, perhaps a favour to be called upon in the future if she kept him from being incriminated, implicated.

It would be foolish to claim he did not occupy himself with the infesting intrigue that grew tendril-like through the Red Keep. "Everyone has an account for that night. You are sure you have not mistaken me for another cripple? Sneaky looking figure. Lord Strong perhaps? No, I see that you do not." Morningwood placed his palms on the silver knob of his cane and sighed, stretching his aching, twitching leg out. "Who told you what? What is the current version of the events? We can hardly [i]all[/i] be responsible for the late Aegon's death. The more people who knew, the more likely the secret would be spilled. I think you're acquainted with those principles." A chuckle followed.

With the same tone and expression used during an uninspiring Mummer's Show, Celena readjusted just slightly in the chair, and thought on what she might say, made obvious by the moments long silent pause she took after he finished speaking.

In the end, the woman was left wanting more, disappointed Morningwood wanted to talk about who and their stories, rather than his own story. "I think...I don't have a lot of time or patience in this to begin with. A King has died. There will be justice. You can either try to work with me here and now, or wait to talk with one of the Starks when they summon you before them to dispense justice. Now, as with when I first entered this room...that choice is yours, Willem. I only ask we stop dancing, and you make it."

"You must understand I am having trouble with confiding in someone who shares a bed with a Stark, acts as their agent and is in the company of one of their bannermen. No offence Ser Olyvar. Sleep with the dogs and you will catch their fleas," Willem replied calmly. "The distinction between yourself and 'one of the Starks' is not easily made... Dance you say? That word is being used wrongly of late. Besides," he tapped his crooked leg. "My dancing days are done." The Reachman weighed what he knew against the risks. "What guarantee do I have, if I testify?" He was a businessman and wanted to know what gains this investment would yield, so as to avoid bankrupcy. "What arrangement do you suggest?"

"If I think you're being forthcoming and honest? You can have damn near anything you want. Anything I can give, that I may actually have to give. There is a task at hand; to discover what really happened that night. My read of the leaves tells me you had the best seat and aren't certified to hang. As you are not certain to die, that allows me to work WITH you. I am no child, nor am I new to this game...I know you're a potential asset to me, and I know it would not do well to treat you roughly, my Lord. Should you testify and be truthful, I cannot see why you would not be entirely cleared of all charges and welcome once more at the Red Keep. If you have a steeper price..." Celena smiled again, this time a small thing made from memories, subtle but unmistakeable. "I am an agent of the Iron Bank, and no stranger to buyout negotiations."

"Those disparate loyalties will one day be out of balance and you will be left with hard choices to make," Willem commented. "But you're not here for advice."

That...only made the woman grin. "You have no idea."

The Reachman smirked, for at least there was a mutual understanding present. "I know nothing for certain," he attested. "But Lord Corlys Velaryon, the king's Master of Ships, and I had a... dubious conversation. One of the things mentioned was an allusion on what cripples and snakes might aspire to and succeed. At the time, I only took it as flattery of course." Obviously the last part was hoax, Willem knew [i]exactly[/i] what the old Sea Snake had hinted at, especially after the bells tolled for Aegon II's passing. The Lord of Driftmark was in Stark custody, already.

Forever, it might have seemed given the staggering silence that Celena Lannister unleashed, the woman stared at the crippled man. Blankness in her look soon gave way to the creases and narrowing eyes of pain and slight irritation, as if Celena had TRIED to accept the words at face value......but could not.

"You mean to tell me the man that is wise enough to know my own internal and inevitable life crisis simply by having heard some things and just meeting me...didn't catch on to what the Sea Snake meant?"

As if appearing by magic, that tiny smile came again to her pink, full, lips. This time, there WAS amusement in it. "Is that the final edition of your story you want me to walk out of here and make decisions with?...is it, REALLY?"

"Foiled again," Morningwood rapped his knuckles on the silver acorn knob. "That is the final edition I will murmur shocked in front of the judges, yes. Everyone wanted Aegon II dead, he was a bad man and an even worse king. I had nothing to do with his poisoning in so far as that I did not prevent it. After he had that golden beast of his devour his own sister, his days were numbered. He was a dead man walking. If not this week then next year." Willem had to grin as he wondered if this would still be seen as lèse-majesté or not, for the crook was dead after all.

Celena's index finger upon her right gloved hand rose into the air for a pause, and then flicked back down, the small memory's smile replaced with something less identifiable upon her lips...save that there was satisfaction in it, now. "There is it. The truth. Or most of it...Mushroom mentioned something to me, though, something I found...baffling. A moment of madness, really...did the dead King really threaten to dismember young Aegon?"

"Cut off his ear and send it to that dashing young lad you waltzed in with, Lord Kermit Tully. I  suspect that spurred Corlys and his cohorts to action."

"Thank you for killing him, then." Ser Olyvar's head visibly tilted at Celena's direction, but the woman was already up from her chair and standing. "Tell whatever safe tale you want in public, this has been more than enough my Lord. You are welcome back to the Red Keep whenever you want. I'll tell the Starks, and their guard, as well as the Royal Guard. Wouldn't want someone giving you a hard time now...would we?"

Willem nodded, the very image of humility. "It will save me some bribes, Madam Stark." He tipped an imaginary hat. "Thank Lord Corlys though, when you hang him. Killing a king, no matter how bad, is still a capital crime."

"He won't hang. Good day, my Lord."

What sort of justice was this?


[hider=Summary]
Celena Lannister, accompanied by Ser Olyvar Condon, meets with Lord Willem Morningwood after he had made himself scarce from the Red Keep following the murder of Aegon II. Disguised as City Watchmen, Celena and Olyvar seek out the crippled Reachman, who is residing in one of his brothels. A confession of sorts follows in the Salty Clam, as Morningwood tells her it was Corlys who planned the poisoning and why.
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-Collab with Ruby-