Peter Claffey is from County Galway in the west of Ireland. When he auditioned for the part of Dunk he originally did so in a southeastern or northern England accent. But he was encouraged to use his native Galway accent and it turned out to be a huge success.
Dunk is from Flea Bottom and so was Davos Seaworth. Davos was portrayed by Liam Cunningham who grew up around Dublin. So perhaps it's been decided that ASoIaF characters from Flea Bottom should sound a bit Irish for the sake of consistency.
When eleven-year-old Princess Valora Velaryon hears that children are starving in Flea Bottom, she does not run into danger recklessly.
She brings Ser Cedric.
And then she organises food distribution, bullies bakers into cooperation, uncovers suspicious missing charity coin, creates a queue three streets long, and earns herself a title no one on the small council approved.
Viserys is horrified.
Daemon is delighted.
Rhaenyra is furious and proud.
Otto Hightower experiences what may or may not be stress-induced chest pain.
Princess Valora Velaryon did not disappear often.
This was because, despite what certain members of the court believed, she was not a reckless child.
She did not wander into danger without thought.
She did not sneak into places she could not escape.
She did not leave the Red Keep without a plan, a purpose, and, most importantly, Ser Cedric Caswell walking two steps behind her with the long-suffering expression of a knight who had learned far too young that sworn shields were not always in command of the person they were sworn to protect.
Unfortunately, none of that made King Viserys feel better when he discovered his granddaughter had been gone since shortly after breakfast.
“She is where?” Viserys asked.
The servant standing before him went pale.
The small council chamber had fallen into a silence so complete that even Lord Beesbury stopped shuffling parchment.
Otto Hightower sat at the king’s right hand, his expression carefully controlled, though one hand had gone very still against the table.
Daemon Targaryen, who had arrived late and looked utterly unrepentant about it, leaned back in his chair with immediate interest.
The servant swallowed.
“Flea Bottom, Your Grace.”
Viserys stared.
Then he blinked.
Then he stared harder, as though the word might change into something less horrifying if he looked at it with enough royal disapproval.
“Flea Bottom,” he repeated.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“My granddaughter,” Viserys said slowly, “is in Flea Bottom.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“My eleven-year-old granddaughter.”
The servant looked as if he wished the floor would open beneath him.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Viserys rose from his chair so quickly that Lord Beesbury startled and nearly dropped his ledger.
“She is eleven!”
Daemon’s mouth twitched.
Otto closed his eyes.
That was never a good sign.
“She did not go alone, Your Grace,” the servant added hastily.
Viserys froze.
Rhaenyra, who had been seated nearby with Laenor at her side, went very still.
Laenor’s hand tightened on the back of her chair.
“With whom?” Rhaenyra asked.
“Ser Cedric, Princess.”
There was a shift in the room then.
Not relief.
Not quite.
But something close to the first breath after nearly drowning.
Rhaenyra shut her eyes briefly.
Laenor exhaled through his nose.
Viserys pressed a hand to his chest.
Daemon’s smile widened.
“Ah,” Daemon said. “So she did not disappear. She mounted a campaign.”
Otto’s eyes opened.
“A campaign,” he repeated flatly.
Daemon looked at him. “Would you prefer invasion?”
“I would prefer,” Otto said, voice clipped, “that the king’s granddaughter not be wandering the worst streets of King’s Landing as though she were inspecting a garden.”
“She likely is inspecting something,” Daemon replied.
Rhaenyra shot him a look. “Daemon.”
“What? It is Valora.”
That, infuriatingly, was difficult to argue with.
Because it was Valora.
Valora, who listened to petitions from behind her grandfather’s elbow and remembered names weeks after grown men forgot them.
Valora, who asked questions at council meetings that made older lords shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Valora, who collected problems like dragon eggs and sat on them until they hatched into plans.
Valora, who had once been found in the kitchens at dawn, arguing with the steward about wasted bread.
Rhaenyra’s stomach twisted.
“What is she doing there?” she asked the servant.
The servant hesitated.
Viserys’s face tightened. “Speak.”
“She is… organising food distribution, Your Grace.”
Silence.
Daemon stared.
Then, very slowly, he began to smile.
Rhaenyra covered her mouth with one hand.
Laenor closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.
Otto’s hand moved to his chest.
Viserys looked as though someone had informed him his favourite dragon figurine had come alive and joined a rebellion.
“She is doing what?” the king demanded.
The servant winced. “Food distribution, Your Grace. Bread, broth, apples, salted fish. Ser Cedric sent word once he realised matters had become… larger than expected.”
“Larger than expected?” Otto echoed.
“Yes, Lord Hand.”
“How large?”
The servant looked deeply uncomfortable.
“There is a queue.”
Daemon laughed.
It burst out of him before he could stop it, sharp and delighted. Rhaenyra turned to glare at him, but even she could not entirely smother the stunned, horrified amusement threatening to break across her face.
Viserys pointed at Daemon. “Do not laugh.”
Daemon made no attempt to look sorry.
“Brother, your granddaughter has occupied Flea Bottom with bread.”
Otto’s hand pressed harder against his chest.
“That is not amusing.”
“It is incredibly amusing.”
“She could cause unrest.”
“She is feeding children,” Daemon said.
“That,” Otto replied tightly, “is often how unrest begins.”
Daemon’s grin turned knife-sharp. “With full bellies?”
“With expectations,” Otto snapped.
The room cooled.
Rhaenyra’s eyes moved to Otto.
Laenor’s did too.
Viserys, for all his fear, noticed.
Daemon’s smile faded into something far more dangerous.
Before anyone could speak, Rhaenyra stood.
“I am going to my daughter.”
Laenor immediately moved with her. “As am I.”
Viserys drew himself up. “I am coming as well.”
Otto looked stricken. “Your Grace, I would advise…”
“I did not ask,” Viserys said, with rare firmness.
Daemon rose lazily from his seat.
“Well. This should be worth seeing.”
Otto’s jaw tightened.
Then, because the gods were cruel and Daemon was worse, the rogue prince glanced at him.
“Coming, Otto?”
The Hand looked as though he would rather walk into dragonfire.
But he stood.
“Someone must ensure this does not become a political catastrophe.”
Daemon clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Mind your chest.”
Otto went rigid.
Flea Bottom was noise.
It was shouting from windows, laughter from alleys, crying babes, barking dogs, rattling carts, splashing gutters, and the constant press of people living too close to hunger to care about courtly quiet.
The smell hit first.
Smoke, fish, ale, old straw, damp stone, sweat, and broth.
The broth was new.
Viserys stepped out of the carriage with visible horror.
Rhaenyra followed, gathering her skirts out of the muck with one hand while searching the crowd with the desperation of a mother trying not to appear desperate.
Laenor remained close beside her.
Daemon looked around with far more ease than any prince had a right to possess.
Otto looked as though every breath cost him a year of life.
Gold Cloaks stood at either end of the street, though they looked less like men controlling a crisis and more like men uncertain whether they had accidentally been assigned to guard a festival.
A crowd had gathered.
Not an angry crowd.
That, somehow, made Otto look more alarmed.
People stood in organised lines along the street. Women with tired faces held bowls. Old men leaned on sticks. Children clustered in groups, some barefoot, some carrying baskets, some watching the food with hollow-eyed focus that made Rhaenyra’s throat close.
And there, at the centre of it all, was Valora.
She stood on an overturned crate with a scrap of parchment in one hand and a piece of charcoal in the other.
Her silver hair had been tucked beneath a plain scarf, though several bright strands had escaped and made the disguise utterly useless. Her dress was simple brown wool, but the stitching was too fine, the boots too sturdy, and the child wearing it far too commanding to pass for anything other than exactly what she was.
A princess pretending she was not a princess.
Beside the crate stood Ser Cedric Caswell.
He looked tired.
Very tired.
One hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his eyes constantly moving over rooftops, alleys, hands, doorways, windows, shoulders, shadows. He had placed himself close enough to reach Valora before anyone else could. His cloak was muddied near the hem, his hair slightly wind-tossed, and his expression contained the resigned misery of a man who had spent the day arguing with a dragon hatchling and losing every single time.
Valora pointed with the charcoal.
“No, Mistress Helly. The smallest children first. If they wait too long, half of them will be too tired to eat properly.”
A woman stirring a large cookpot snorted. “You hear that? Princess says I don’t know how to feed children.”
“I said no such thing,” Valora replied. “I said hungry children become sleepier when they wait too long, and sleepy children spill broth.”
“That she did,” Cedric muttered.
Valora glanced down at him. “Thank you, Ser.”
Cedric gave her a look.
It was a look Rhaenyra recognised immediately.
It was the look every adult who loved Valora eventually learned.
The you are correct, but I am still very upset with you look.
Daemon leaned closer to Viserys.
“She has command of the field.”
Viserys did not answer.
His eyes were fixed on his granddaughter.
Valora turned sharply toward two boys carrying a basket of apples.
“Not that way,” she called. “Tom’s lot are in that alley.”
One of the boys blinked. “How do you know?”
“Because Tom tried to steal the last basket.”
Cedric’s face tightened. “And received a warning.”
Valora nodded solemnly. “A very firm warning.”
Cedric looked at her. “You threatened him with Dragonpit duty.”
“It was effective.”
“You are eleven.”
“He was stealing from starving children.”
Cedric opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked skyward.
Daemon grinned.
Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, though her eyes were wet.
Then Valora noticed them.
Her entire body stilled.
For one brief heartbeat, she was no longer the fierce little organiser of Flea Bottom.
She was simply a child who had been caught somewhere she knew she was not supposed to be.
Cedric noticed the change immediately and followed her gaze.
The moment he saw the king, the princess, Laenor, Daemon, and Otto, his face became the image of a man prepared to meet his execution with dignity.
He stepped down from beside the crate and bowed.
“Your Grace. Princess.”
Valora climbed down after him with as much dignity as she could manage.
Her boot slipped slightly in the mud.
Cedric caught her elbow without looking, steadying her before she could fall.
Viserys saw it.
Rhaenyra saw it.
Even Otto saw it.
Valora gently pulled her arm free and folded her hands in front of her.
“Grandfather.”
Viserys stared at her.
Then at Cedric.
Then back at her.
“You have been here all day?”
Valora hesitated.
Cedric answered before she could decide how honest to be.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Valora gave him a betrayed look.
Cedric did not flinch.
Viserys turned to the knight.
“And you allowed this?”
Cedric’s jaw tightened.
“No, Your Grace.”
Otto’s brows drew together. “No?”
Cedric’s expression remained carefully respectful. “I advised against it repeatedly.”
Daemon looked delighted already.
Valora frowned. “Repeatedly is an exaggeration.”
Cedric looked down at her.
“Princess, I advised against entering Flea Bottom. I advised against approaching the first baker. I advised against standing on the crate. I advised against arguing with the butcher. I advised against threatening Tom with Dragonpit duty. I advised against creating runners out of street children. I advised against sending word only after the queue reached three streets.”
Valora paused.
Then she said, “Fine. Repeatedly.”
Rhaenyra made a strangled sound.
Laenor turned his face away.
Daemon laughed under his breath.
Viserys looked caught between fury and relief.
Otto did not look relieved at all.
He looked like each word had hammered a nail into his coffin.
Valora lifted her chin.
“Ser Cedric did not fail in his duty. He stayed with me the entire time.”
Cedric’s expression softened for the briefest moment.
Then he ruined it by saying, “After Her Grace made it impossible to return her to the Red Keep without physically carrying her.”
Valora gasped. “You would not have dared.”
Cedric looked at Viserys. “I considered it.”
Daemon laughed properly this time.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes.
Valora turned pink with outrage.
“I had work to do!”
Otto stepped forward. “Princess, your work is not to descend into Flea Bottom and create public spectacles.”
The street quieted slightly.
Valora’s head turned toward him.
Cedric’s hand shifted subtly closer to his sword, not because Otto was a physical threat, but because every instinct in him seemed to recognise that Valora’s temper had teeth.
“My work,” Valora said, very carefully, “is to learn how to rule.”
Otto’s mouth tightened.
“Ruling requires order.”
“Yes,” Valora agreed. “That is why I made lines.”
A child nearby giggled.
Daemon’s eyes gleamed.
Otto’s jaw flexed.
“Ruling also requires restraint.”
Valora looked past him to the line of hungry children.
Then back.
“Does it require looking away?”
The words landed with quiet violence.
Rhaenyra’s face changed.
Viserys looked stricken.
Laenor’s hand gently settled against Rhaenyra’s back.
Cedric’s expression, for all its exhaustion, filled with fierce pride.
Otto went still.
Valora’s fingers tightened around the parchment.
“I heard the servants speaking this morning,” she said. “About a child who collapsed near the lower market. They said it as if it were sad, but ordinary. As if children fainting from hunger is simply something that happens.”
Her voice wavered only slightly.
“When I asked why no one helped, I was told the city is large. That hunger is difficult. That it is not so simple.”
She looked at Viserys then.
“So I came to see what was difficult.”
Viserys swallowed.
“And?”
Valora’s eyes shone with anger.
“It is difficult,” she said. “But not impossible.”
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Cedric looked at the king.
“She asked questions, Your Grace. That is how it began.”
Valora nodded quickly, seizing the opening.
“The bakers throw away loaves they cannot sell by evening. Some are stale, but not spoiled. The fishmongers discard pieces that can still flavour broth. The kitchens in the Red Keep waste enough scraps to feed at least one street if organised properly. Mistress Helly already cooks for children when she can, but she cannot afford enough barley. There are widows doing the work of the crown with empty cupboards.”
Otto looked pained. “Princess…”
“I wrote it down,” Valora said, thrusting the parchment forward.
Viserys took it automatically.
The parchment was smudged with charcoal and fingerprints, but it was full.
Names.
Streets.
Quantities.
Problems.
Solutions.
A child’s handwriting, yes.
But not a child’s thoughtlessness.
Valora pointed to one section.
“If the crown gives protection to bakers who donate unsold bread, the guild cannot punish them for lowering prices. If donations are announced publicly, lords will compete to have their names praised. If the Red Keep kitchens are ordered to set aside usable scraps before waste is thrown out, that can begin tomorrow. If the Gold Cloaks patrol the distribution spots, fewer men will steal from children.”
Cedric added quietly, “She also identified three men skimming from previous charity collections.”
Otto’s head turned.
Valora looked sharply at Cedric. “I was going to mention that later.”
“You should mention that immediately.”
“It needed evidence.”
“You have evidence.”
“I have statements.”
“From seven witnesses.”
“One was five.”
“He was very convincing.”
Daemon looked as though he had found his new favourite entertainment in the world.
Viserys stared at the two of them, then down at the parchment.
“You have been investigating corruption?”
Valora frowned.
“I have been asking why food does not reach hungry children.”
“That,” Daemon said, “is often how one finds corruption.”
Otto shot him a look.
Daemon smiled back.
Rhaenyra stepped closer to Valora, crouching slightly despite her skirts.
“You frightened us.”
Valora’s anger softened at once.
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“You would have said no.”
“Yes,” Rhaenyra said immediately.
Valora looked down.
Rhaenyra’s voice trembled. “Because you are my daughter. Because you are eleven. Because Flea Bottom is dangerous, and because even with Cedric beside you, something could have happened.”
Cedric bowed his head slightly, guilt flickering across his face.
Valora saw it and quickly said, “Nothing happened because Ser Cedric was with me.”
Rhaenyra glanced at Cedric.
The knight looked miserable.
“I did not allow anyone near her without passing me first, Princess.”
Rhaenyra nodded once.
A silent acknowledgement.
A silent warning.
A silent thank you.
Valora swallowed.
“I am sorry I frightened you,” she said. “But I am not sorry I helped.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes softened painfully.
“No,” she whispered. “I know you are not.”
Viserys lowered himself slowly to one knee before Valora.
The entire street seemed to stop breathing.
Otto looked horrified.
Daemon’s expression shifted, amusement giving way to something quieter.
The king held up her parchment.
“Show me what must be done.”
Valora stared at him.
“You mean it?”
“I do.”
Otto took half a step forward. “Your Grace, perhaps this matter is better brought before the council in a more suitable—”
“No,” Viserys said.
Otto stopped.
Viserys did not look away from Valora.
“The council has had many years to discuss hunger in my city,” he said. “Today, my granddaughter has done more than discuss it.”
The crowd murmured again.
Valora’s face lit with something so bright it made Rhaenyra ache.
Then, because she was Valora, she immediately turned serious and pointed at the parchment.
Valora continued, “And Mistress Helly needs a proper pot. This one is cracked.”
Mistress Helly waved a ladle. “Still works.”
“It leaks.”
“Only a little.”
“It leaks broth,” Valora said, scandalised. “That is the worst thing for a broth pot to leak.”
Viserys, helplessly, laughed.
It sounded surprised out of him.
Rhaenyra smiled despite herself.
Even Laenor’s mouth twitched.
Otto did not laugh.
Otto looked like he was developing a headache behind his eyes and a chest pain beneath his ribs.
Daemon noticed.
“Otto,” he said pleasantly, “you look unwell.”
“I am perfectly well.”
“You are clutching your chest.”
Otto lowered his hand immediately.
Valora looked concerned. “Are you ill, Lord Hand?”
Daemon’s grin became wicked.
Otto forced his expression into something resembling calm. “No, Princess.”
“You should sit if your chest hurts.”
Daemon had to turn away.
Rhaenyra gave him a warning look, but it came too late. His shoulders were already shaking.
Otto looked as though death might be preferable.
They stayed until the food was distributed.
Viserys did not intend to.
Rhaenyra certainly did not intend to.
Otto looked like he would have sold half his soul to leave within the first five minutes.
But Valora insisted that if she left before the final bowls were handed out, Master Hewett would attempt to hide the better loaves for paying customers, and Cedric, with the solemn air of a man confirming battlefield intelligence, admitted that she was probably right.
So they stayed.
The king stood in Flea Bottom while his granddaughter directed bakers, fishmongers, widows, children, and Gold Cloaks like a general commanding troops.
Cedric remained at her side the entire time.
Sometimes he corrected her path with a quiet, “Not that alley, Princess.”
Sometimes he stepped between her and someone who moved too quickly.
Sometimes he took baskets from children carrying too much.
Sometimes he murmured reminders that princesses should drink water after standing in the sun all day.
Valora ignored that last one twice.
The third time, Cedric simply handed her a cup and stared.
She drank.
Daemon saw and laughed.
“She obeys him better than you,” he told Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra sighed. “That is because he asks less often.”
Laenor smiled. “And because he looks more disappointed when she refuses.”
At one point, a thin little girl with tangled hair approached Valora and held up a bruised apple.
“For you,” the child said.
Valora blinked.
“Oh. No, sweetling, you keep that.”
The girl shook her head stubbornly. “You’ve been working too.”
Valora stared at her.
Then, slowly, she accepted the apple like it was a treasure.
“Thank you.”
The girl smiled shyly and ran off.
Valora looked down at the bruised fruit in her hand.
Cedric’s face softened.
Rhaenyra had to look away.
Viserys did not.
By the time the sun began to lower, half the street knew Valora’s name.
The other half had given her a new one.
It began with a boy missing one front tooth.
He accepted a heel of bread from Cedric, looked at Valora standing on her crate again, then shouted, “Make way for the Queen of Flea Bottom!”
Valora nearly dropped her parchment.
“I am not…”
“The Queen of Flea Bottom!” another child yelled.
Then another.
Then an old woman laughed and lifted her bowl. “Aye, the little queen!”
The chant spread faster than Valora could stop it.
“The Queen of Flea Bottom!”
“The Queen of Flea Bottom!”
Valora’s face turned scarlet.
Cedric looked like he was trying very hard not to smile.
Daemon did not try at all.
Viserys stood frozen, overwhelmed and horrified and proud all at once.
Otto looked like he was hearing the first notes of his own funeral dirge.
“This is dangerous,” he murmured.
Daemon, beside him, smiled at the cheering crowd.
“No,” he said. “This is loyalty.”
Otto’s gaze sharpened.
Daemon looked at him sidelong.
“And she earned it with broth.”
The carriage ride back to the Red Keep was quiet at first.
Valora sat between Rhaenyra and Laenor, exhausted enough that she was leaning into her mother’s side without protest. The plain scarf had been removed, leaving her silver hair tangled around her shoulders. There was dirt on her cheek, charcoal on her fingers, and the bruised apple resting carefully in her lap.
Cedric rode separately with the guards, though not before Valora had apologised to him.
Properly.
With only minimal prompting.
“I am sorry I made your duty difficult,” she had said.
Cedric had looked at her for a long moment.
Then he bowed his head.
“I am not sorry I was there, Princess.”
Valora had smiled at him, small and tired.
Now, in the carriage, Viserys sat opposite her with the parchment in his hands.
Daemon lounged beside him.
Otto sat rigidly near the door, looking like a man who had aged five years in one afternoon.
Viserys glanced at Valora.
“You will not do this again without permission.”
Valora opened her mouth.
Rhaenyra said, “Valora.”
She shut it.
Viserys continued, “You will not go into the city without informing your mother, your father, or me. You will not take it upon yourself to organise Flea Bottom without royal authority. You will not frighten half the Red Keep because you have decided the adults are moving too slowly.”
Valora looked down.
“Yes, Grandfather.”
A pause.
Then she added, “But may I continue helping?”
Otto shut his eyes.
Daemon’s lips twitched.
Viserys looked at the parchment again.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Valora’s head lifted.
Rhaenyra turned toward him.
Otto opened his eyes in alarm.
Viserys folded the list carefully.
“But properly. With guards. With supplies. With oversight. With your mother informed of every step.”
Valora nodded quickly.
“And Ser Cedric?” she asked.
Viserys looked at her.
Valora lifted her chin.
“He knows the streets better now. And people listen to him when he looks disappointed.”
Daemon coughed.
Rhaenyra covered her smile with one hand.
Laenor failed entirely to hide his.
Even Viserys smiled.
“Yes,” the king said. “With Ser Cedric.”
Valora relaxed.
Otto did not.
“Your Grace,” the Hand said carefully, “I must caution against encouraging the smallfolk to form personal attachments to individual members of the royal family in ways that might undermine formal structures of governance.”
Daemon stared at him.
“That is the most joyless way anyone has ever described feeding children.”
Otto ignored him.
Valora frowned thoughtfully.
“But should they not feel attached to the crown?”
Otto looked at her.
Valora tilted her head.
“If the crown is meant to rule them, protect them, tax them, judge them, and ask their sons to fight in wars, should they not believe the crown knows they exist?”
The carriage went still.
Viserys looked down at the parchment again.
Rhaenyra’s hand tightened gently around Valora’s.
Daemon watched Otto over steepled fingers, delighted beyond measure.
Otto said nothing.
Valora leaned back against Rhaenyra, too tired to realise she had just silenced the Hand of the King.
The carriage rolled on toward the Red Keep.
By morning, the servants would be whispering.
By noon, the city would be laughing.
By the end of the week, all of King’s Landing would know the story of how Princess Valora Velaryon went down into Flea Bottom with her sworn shield at her side, found hungry children, bullied bakers, organised broth, uncovered missing coin, and returned with dirt on her face, a bruised apple in her lap, and a title no one on the small council had approved.
The Queen of Flea Bottom.
And somewhere beside the gates, Ser Cedric Caswell quietly realised that protecting Princess Valora would never simply mean standing between her and danger.
Sometimes it would mean following her straight into it.
And making absolutely certain the danger regretted being there first.
Ppl really be assigning themselves into noble houses from asoiaf as if we don't all belong in flea bottom. Like bestie stop lying to yourself and see you in flea bottom, ya filthy fucking peasant.
Say what you will about the devastation brought by the dance of the dragons, but for a few glorious weeks there must've been dragon in the bowls o' brown in Flea Bottom, and I think that's beautiful.
El maestro llamó a un muchacho alto, más o menos de la edad de Robb, pero con el pecho y los brazos muy musculosos.
—Éste es Lord Stark, la nueva Mano del Rey —dijo al chico de ojos azules y hoscos, que se retiraba de la frente el pelo empapado de sudor. Tenía el cabello negro como la tinta, espeso e indómito. La sombra de una barba incipiente le oscurecía la mandíbula—. Éste es Gendry. Es muy fuerte para su edad, y trabaja duro. Enséñale a la Mano el yelmo que has hecho, chico.
El muchacho los guió hacia su mesa de trabajo y, casi con timidez, tendió a Ned un yelmo de acero con forma de cabeza de toro y dos enormes cuernos curvos. Ned dio vueltas al yelmo entre sus manos. Era de acero basto, sin pulir, pero que denotaba una mano experta.
—Un trabajo excelente. Sería un placer que me permitieras comprarlo.
—No está en venta —dijo el chico arrebatándoselo de las manos.
—Estás hablando con la Mano del Rey, chico. —Tobho Mott lo miraba horrorizado—. Si su señoría quiere este yelmo, regálaselo. Te ha hecho el honor de pedírtelo.
—Lo he forjado para mí —replicó el muchacho con testarudez.
Prince of the Rat Pit Flea Bottom!Bastard Headcannons
Birth: Flea Bottom is a shit-scented corner of the city of King’s Landing. Filled to bursting with naught but low-lives, whores, criminals and those too poor and infirm to fight back against those who’d brutalize them. Thus it was into this world of shit that you were born. The bastard son of some noble from some far off place who would never know, your mother was another unknown quantity, she sold you to the owner of the brothel she worked at and he had but one purpose for young boys. While some might have sold boys to certain men of a certain persuasion he had a different interest. The Rat Pits.
Childhood: From the moment you were given over to the brothel owner you were no longer human. If you resisted any command you were beaten, if you caused any trouble you were starved. All transgressions were punished a severely as possible and your master relished in the power. You had no name, you were referred to only as Rat, one of many. You were given little food, what little there was you had to fight for which often resulted in the death of some of the smaller Rats. You always pried some food for yourself almost always taking a finger or two with it. When you had grown large enough, when your aggression and rage had been primed only then were you given over to the Pits.
The First Fight: Your first fight, the first kill was not an easy one. You were fighting another Rat, one owned by another brothel. He was larger and faster. He beat you for what felt like hours, driving his fists into your face over and over until one of your eyes went white. When the pain overtook you, when the realization that you were about to die rang though your skull, you retaliated. You bit his nose off, grinding the cartilage between your teeth. In his panic you pounced driving your thumbs deep into his eyes you proceeded to beat him, again and again until he stopped moving all together. Your gift for this victory was simple, new clothes, and new weapons. Your teeth were filed into fangs, all the better rip into your enemies with.
The Fights to Come: Over several years you won many bouts against many opponents, your savage and violent style making up for what you initially lacked in raw size and strength, though that too would come in time. With every fight your master grew richer and with every fight you began to wonder why. Why did you take orders from him why did you have to bow to man to did nothing but abuse you, force you to kill others and treat you like an animal. In time you realized you didn’t have to
The Rats: Whilst not engaged in fights you spent the majority of your time in an underground cellar beneath the brothel with the other Rats. You were one of the oldest boys, in a way they saw you as a leader. You would personally divide up the food as equally as possible, violently punishing any who attempted to take more than their ration. One plan of yours that truly helped the other was when you dealt with the actual rats in the cellar. Using a bucket and a morsel of food you rounded up every rat living in the cellar and left them in their. Over time they began to eat each other and when there was only a handful left you released them. Now the rats would eat other rats.
The Cat: During one evening a commotion woke you in the night, a cat screaming in the corner. You and several other Rats followed the noise to it’s source, a large black cat being attacked from all sides by the rats you had trained to hunt other rats. Before the sight of you all, the rats killed the cat. While the others went back to sleep you investigated the wall. The rats feasted as you stepped over them and when you probed the wall you found something, a hidden tunnel which led to the armory of the City Watch. When you realized this you couldn’t help but smile. A horrific and terrible smile.
The Rebellion of the Rat Pits: You spoke to your master with an idea, a plan for more money than he could ever dream of. What if he gathered all of the brothel owners and their rats for a single massive mock battle? The idea was profitable and your master agreed. What he could not know was that you had raided the City Watch armory for weapons and had hidden them in the brothel, in all the nooks and crannies that the master never looked in. Dozens of them were hidden beneath the dirt of the Rat Pit itself, easy to access for that was to come. During the day all the rats gathered in your home, every rat from every brothel, easily spoken to, easy to convince. During the match they were all gathered in the pit you at the center. In a voice like a dragons you roared for the attack and all at once nearly five hundred Rats attacked at once. Pulling swords, axes, mauls and spears from the dirt beneath their feet. It took nearly three hours but the majority of crowd would die, every master was killed first. Speared, beheaded or defenestrated, most of the guests were as well. But the true prize would come from a single guest that was found attempting to escape. A Prince with silver hair and a Valyrian steel sword. As your boys surrounded him, dozens of spears blocking him from escape, the Prince yielded.
The Silver Prince: Had Daemon Targaryen not been so far from the door when your rebellion began he could have escaped. But alas here he was now, dark sister pried from his fist, nearly three dozen spears pointed at his throat and surrounded by fanged, snarling children. However, what caught his eye was not the children but you. You stood above them, like a warlord amongst his troops directing every movement, every attack. You matched his gaze and Daemon could tell that whatever happened here tonight you were not finished and as that realization dawned on his face you smiled a wolf’s smile.
