(May be a bit early for me to post again, but I'm really proud of this one. Thanks [@MrDidact]!)

"Oh!" exclaimed Cathay, already assuming a false character. She had never met the mistress of whisperers, yet already that woman was breathing down her neck every half-second. Perhaps she could throw this emissary of hers off a bit, and buy a bit of time for herself. "I'm just one of Lady Cathay's maidservants. Didn't . . . didn't my lady inform you? She has left the castle sometime in past days, to visit her ailing family in Whitehoof Castle. If you would like to leave a message for her, you can do so through me." She gave one of her most innocent smiles at the intruder. He didn't look too convinced, but looks can be decieving, after all.

The emissary made no visible reaction to the news at first, "Strange. I had thought we the Mistress was kept appraised on all the movements of the courtiers. It is not often that we miss someone." He stared at her, seemingly appraising her for a moment before saying, with a slight smile, "I suppose nothing can be done for it however. I'm afraid I cannot pass sensitive intelligence onto anyone outside of this investigation, and if our primary investigator is absent... perhaps their Graces would benefit from another investigator. Tell your lady, we will begin working on selecting her replacement. Good day." He turned to go. 

Cathay huffed. Just like lap-dogs of the Starks to intrude on the fine machinations of a working mind.

"A report then. Time is of the essence, especially when royal blood is on the line. I am aware of who and where the Celtigars are within the city, thank you very much. They do enjoy . . . making themselves known. I think I've sent a maidservant to speak to . . . Daemon, was it? I'll pay a visit myself to Ardrian. Could you pass me that wig?" she asked, pointing to a small pile of red hairs sitting on the end of her little table. She turned to the mirror at the end of the room and began applying a bit of makeup. Carefully, she inspected herself. Not too great. She was never the sort to change faces. But it was enough, hopefully, to distract one as low as a goldcloak.

The agent smirked, passing the wig to her, "Gaemon. There are many of the brood in the city, but those two are among the most influential in the Kingsmen. Most of the others are strutting courtiers, handmaidens, and tourney knights. And Lord Celtigar had already returned to Claw Isle to raise his levies for the invasion, and a raven isn't due back for a few days at least." He looked at her, readying herself, "What do you plan to do?" 

"Obviously, Lord Ardrian and I have much to discuss," Cathay mumbled, grabbing the wig and setting it on her head. Occasionally, one of her own black tangles would poke out, and she would have to correct it, annoying her to no end. "There. Do I look the part of a sooty aleserve?" she asked, when she felt her head looked orange enough.

"Captain Ardrian," The emissary corrected before nodding, "It'll serve. The Mistress wants results, and fast. Otherwise, we might just need another agent in this matter. If you need assistance, relay a message to the Mistress' office. If there's nothing else, I will depart." The man turned to leave again. 

The stench of cheap wine and piss could be smelled from two streets away. This, of course, would be the Evening Sword, a tavern that goldcloaks have an odd tendency to flock to. Cathay stood outside the door for a few seconds, then decided to stop torturing herself. The quicker she finishes, the quicker she can leave. She sucked in a deep breath, and forced herself into the side door. As its name suggests, the place was especially full during the evening hours. Aleserves ran this way and that, too numerous to count, bringing heaping tankards to the equally countless goldcloaks lounging around. At least half of them were passed out in their own vomit. Cathay rushed to the back of the room and picked up one of the tankards. Nobody could tell the difference between her and the regular workers. Then, a shout for more ale sounded from the center table. Sitting there were a smattering of the officers, and as one of her loyal eyes told her, one Captain Ardrian Celtigar. This was her chance.

Ardrian Celtigar was as comely as his sister was beautiful. His eyes were pale lilac, framed by hair as pure white as snow with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. He was a young man, barely a nameday or two above twenty. The only indication of his status as a veteran guardsman was the scar running horizontally across his cheek. Even at table he wore his armor, gilded plate with his gold cloak draped over one shoulder. A longsword and dagger were at his belt and he held up his tankard, "Another round for the boys and I!" 

Cathay scurried over, and passed around the cups. She found she couldn't move quite as quickly as the girls around her, they being far more experienced with such matters. She began pouring the ale, getting more on the table than in the cups. Most of the officers, fortunately, seemed too drunk to care. She especially took her time with Ardrian, letting the ale practically drip into his cup.

"So, big Ser Goldcloak, off to defend the city?" she teased, in her best King's Landing accent.

The young Captain gave the apparent serving wench a smile, showing off perfect white teeth, "Indeed. After the chaos a few weeks ago, every garrison is on high alert. And within the week we're to chase down a band of Freemen, apparently some were sighted in the Kingswood. So I thought, I'd reward the men for their hard work." He took a drink and said, "I don't recognize you, you must be new. Barkeep treating you well?" 

"You got me," Cathay giggled. The smell was getting to her, but she had to keep her head clear. Her standing at court depended on it. "That all sounds very dangerous work. I'm glad that big, brave men like you are keeping the streets safe. So, are there any stories you could part with to a poor little girl like me? Any goings-on at the big castle?" This man was like putty in her hands. The drink almost made it too easy.

Captain Ardrian smiled again, "Why don't you have a seat? Old Pate won't mind." The Gold Cloak pulled Cathay down to his lap and poured her another tankard, handing it to her as he rubbed his chin in thought, "Let's see. I could tell you all about the time I went with Prince Aemon on a raid against a band of Stepstoner Pirates. Or the time I found and hung the leader of a band of Sparrows. Or of the dozens of monsters I fought when the fishmen attacked the city. I don't  know if a delicate maiden could handle such stories though." Like most soldiers, when a pretty woman asked for a story, he immediately thought of war stories. Extracting gossip or rumors from him might take a bit more effort. 

Cathay couldn't say anything, but her temper was running short. He wasn't quite getting to the point she wanted, and there was no direct way she could direct him to the more relevant information. Was he drunk enough to let her take the risk?

"Oh, we folk down here are not entirely in the dark. A friend of mine is handmaiden to a Celtigar lady, and she had quite a tale to tell. A prince's bastard, tucked away in a septa's belly! Can you imagine that?" Nervously, she took a sip of the ale. Sitting here, with Ardrian's hand on her shoulder like that made escape . . . a little tricky, to say the least.

The Captain smiled again, though this time it seemed a shade brittle, "I see the gossip travels very fast indeed. A friend of yours you say? I bet it's my cousin Velanna she heard it from. She's always letting things slip. Perhaps she needs new handmaidens." He drank again, and slammed the tankard down with a bit more force than needed, "Velanna, I love her, but it's a blessing she is pretty, for wits were never her gift. It's a good thing she doesn't know very much. That septa you speak of, well let's just say I know her as well. And that that bastard in her belly is the best thing to happen to her. A gift from the Seven, I say.  The worst thing to happen to her was becoming a Septa. Now she will be free of it," He drank again, his expression clouding over as he seemed to brood over something. 

"It sounds like you know a little something about this bastard baby," Cathay cooed, while at the same time trying to slowly escape the bounds of his lap, inch by inch. "Is the father really the king-to-be, the prince Aemon himself?" Alcohol was thick on his breath, and he seemed far more slumped than but a few minutes earlier. It can't be too long before his head gives out from all the drink.

Ardrian laughed, more bitterness than mirth in the sound, "Our High Septon proclaimed it so, surely it must be true shouldn't it? The bastard." He cursed under his breath, "All Jonquil needed was a Prince. Even-" His eyes suddenly came into focus, his drunken mind belatedly realizing something, "Who sent you?" Suspicion appeared on his face and his hand began to tighten on his shoulder as his hand wandered to his belt, his reactions somewhat slowed by drink. The other Gold Cloaks at the table, those of whom that weren't too drunk to even raise their heads from the table, sensed their Captain's mood and all began to stand, reaching for dirks or cudgels. "Who sent you!" The Captain demanded. 

The situation was quickly turning away from Cathay's favor. She had to get out! The knowledge in her head will soon have a bounty on it, and the Celtigars were not above bribes and assassinations. She took the tankard in both hands and brought it down on Ardrian's nose.

"I'm not that sort of lass!" she shrieked, and bolted for the side door. Fortunately, she was able to outpace the greatly inebriated goldcloak officers. The moment she stepped outside and slammed the door behind her, she tore off the red wig and threw it into a gutter. Then, she wiped all the makeup off with her sleeve, and dove into a crowd just as goldcloaks burst out of the Evening Sword and began making their way through the mob, interrogating passers-by.

Ardrian ran out of the taven, blood running down his nose and staining his cloak as he swept it out of the way and drew his sword, eyes scanning the crowd. He ran to the post right next to the tavern and hopped onto his horse and began trotting through the press, frantically searching for the spy as his men followed suit. By chance Adriran started riding in Cathay's direction, not finding her, but wading closer and closer to her by the moment. 

Ardrian caught a glance of Cathay and rode towards her, pointing his sword at her, missing her face for the moment, "Did a redhaired woman pass by you a few moments ago? A Kingslander?" Even as he asked the question, his brow knitted in concentration, and he would likely recognize her in a few moments if she dawdled any further. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cathay spat, in the faux-noble accent of the Reach. "And shouldn't you be out there, protecting the people, instead of drinking in taverns?" She turned on her heels and strode away, muttering "I swear, it's like we can't leave our homes at night anymore," just loud enough for Ardrian to hear.

It all suddenly clicked for Ardrian, "You! Stop!" He tried to urge his horse forward, but the crowd quickly thickened and it was like wading through a river against the current. His steed moved forward at an agonizingly slow pace, as the crowd jostled all around and frustrated, Ardrian had his men begin shoving through the crowd with pikes and clubs. Finally he began riding through at a decent speed, intent on finding Cathay. 

Cathay was already gone. She had slipped out of the crowd and was dashing toward the Red Keep as fast as her legs could take her. 'All Jonquil needed was a prince'. Those words played themselves over and over in her head. What did they mean? Was the child the son of the prince? Was he even royal? Whatever the truth, she knew she could not leave her rooms while the trial took place, and perhaps long after. Who knows who in her employ is loyal to her anymore? How many of them would hand her over without a second thought to the angry and vengeful Celtigar family?