Cue Game of Thrones theme, with rotating rings detailing the history of Westeros surrounding a clockwork star. The continent of Westeros is shown, with small trees spinning up out of the woodwork, along with mountains, rivers, and other automated sculptures. In the midst of all of these, a small tavern rises up in the midst of the neighborhood of King's Landing known as Flea Bottom, before the title "GAME OF THRONES" is revealed as the theme reaches it's crescendo.
Inside the tavern, a filthy man scratches his back with a barbed stick. "So, I killed like, so many rats earlier! You wouldn't believe how many rats we have down there in the cellar where we keep all the food and the beer in open barrels. It's amazing, never have I seen so many rats!" The man gave an enthusiastic smile to the bartender, a serious - if somewhat cold looking man. A disgusted patron slowly stood up and walked out of the pub.
"Charlie, you can't keep talking about rats when we have customers like- Right there." The bartender motioned off to the leaving customer. The bar was mostly empty now, save for a drunken balding man sleeping at a back table, a drumstick in one hand and upturned flagon in the other. "It's bad for business. I mean, you can't keep saying - Listen, just don't talk about the rats. There are no rats, okay?"
"But.. " Charlie rested his barbed stick on the tavern's bartop, a smashed rat impaled on one of the spikes. He immediately began scratching under his sack-cloth tunic. "There are rats. They're all over the damned place, and they keep biting me and biting me. Why do I have to do this? Why is this my job?" He picked up the stick and once again began to scratch his back, to some relief. The bartender sighed and rolled his eyes, calling for doorman.
"MAC! Come tell Charlie why rat duty is- .. Why he has to do rat duty."
A portly man in cheap leather armor (with chain sleeves) wandered in from the door, a rusted sword sheathed at his back, three daggers to his belt, an iron cestus on his right fist and crude metal stars dotting the sleeves of his shirts. "Okay. Charlie. You're the rat guy, I'm the security specialist. Dennis is the barman, and Dee- Dee-"
A woman in what was once a pretty dress stands in a filthy intersection. "The finest beer in all the land, the most delicious of meat! You'll find all this and more in Podrick's Pub, down the -" A thief runs up to her and snatches away her coinpurse. The woman screams and shouts in an unladylike manner, only to trip and fall in the muddy ground.
"Dee is the advertising. We have a system, Charlie, and when you work against it, you're working against the collective. Does that work?" Mac raised a brow, thinking on what more weapons he could obtain - legally or illegally - to make his security loadout more effective.
"But ... why do I have to do the rat duty?"
"Now now, there's no need for those kinds of questions. Are you just going to let those rats get away with whatever they've been doing? Having sex in our bread baskets, dying in the beer barrels too drunk to swim?"
"n- No! Seven hells, no!" Charlie responds, rallying his stick.
"That's the spirit. I knew you were a team player!"