Flea Bottom was quieter at noon than in the early morning.
Last night's drunks had long since been dragged to the Blackwater Rush by patrolling Gold Cloaks, and the whores lining the streets had returned to their attics to catch up on sleep. Only a few taverns remained open, wafting the smell of cheap ale and roasted onions.
The one Larys Strong had chosen was absurdly out of the way, tucked into the angle between two narrow alleys. The paint on its sign had peeled away so badly that even its name was illegible.
The tavern was dim, with only a few small windows admitting patches of sunlight that revealed a thin layer of dust on the scarred wooden tables.
The air held a mixture of sour ale, musty wood, and a faint, elusive trace of blood-
It was a smell shared by almost every little tavern in Flea Bottom. At the moment, apart from the proprietor dozing over the bar, the Strong brothers were its only occupants.
Harwin Strong's enormous frame was wedged into a little wooden chair, making him look particularly ridiculous.
He held an earthenware cup in one hand and draped his other arm around his brother's shoulders, grumbling in his rough voice, "This is where you treat your big brother to a drink? Larys, I've helped you with so many important things these past few days. Couldn't you find us somewhere decent? Even The Drunken Sailor on Riverside Street would do."
As he spoke, he swallowed a great mouthful of ale. The cheap brew made him choke and furrow his brow.
Larys Strong sat upright opposite him, also holding a cup of ale, though he had not touched a drop.
He leaned on his oak cane, his back perfectly straight. Even in such a filthy place,