The day was a calm one.

Shale had broken his fast with Lord Oatwright, an old fool who thought he could outsmart the royal taxation laws and their collector. Such a blasphemy could not have been left unpunished, and before Shale finished his pint of black ale, a pair of gold cloaks dragged the rebellious petty lordling towards the deepest cells of the Red Keep’s dungeons. It was an entertaining meeting; much more then he would’ve liked.

Then he had helped Raymar with the accounts. They were due to the moonturn and the books that kept them took almost a whole room to stockpile, thought they contained only mere records of the recent taxation of the area of the Crownlands. The rest of the realm was awaiting its own audit by the King’s Counter.

With a head heavy with numbers, Shale thought some stale and musty air of King’s Landing’s streets could do him good. He took a plain brown cloak from his wardrobe and as he put it over his shoulders, he called out for Thoro to accompany him to the heart of the never-sleeping city. The Sarnori monster checked the edge of his axe with an expert’s glance, and rose from his spot in the corner of the room to follow his master’s orders.

They went to share a cask of red with the gold garrison of the West Barracks; after that, they started to aimlessly wander through the city.

Suddenly a man caught Shale’s attentive eye. He was a Dornishman, that thing for once was clear, and a famous bone spear at his back signalled for one of the local noble houses. Shale approached the Uller in a single, graceful motion, for money never sleeps and neither do the noble lords.

“You are the most illustrious Lord Uller, am I not mistaken?” the King’s taxmaster sweetly warbled.