I walk uncomfortably, holding the girl’s shoulder with my left arm. I swapped out my bloodied boots for a beggar's tattered leather strips sewn together loosely in the shape of a shoe. Passers by stare at us confused. What an odd couple we must look like. The king, dripping blood from a mostly skinless hand and struggling go walk straight, going for an late evening stroll with some unknown girl in a fine dress, sobbing into his side. Will this be perverted into some scandal I wonder as I shuffle painfully in these tight bindings.

Not if we cut out every tongue that dares to speak it.

The girl walks fine enough but I suspect if I were to stop steering her she’d keep walking in a straight line and just stare at the first obstacle she came across with dead eyes. She looks down sullenly at her hands, droplets of blood have begun to dry. I can't bring her back to the angel, not like this. Irene will make me want to force nails into my ears if I come to her in this state.

“Where do you live?” I inquire, partly to keep her from dwelling on the killings. “I can speak with your father, arrange for-”

“Can’t go to father,” she mutters through tears. “Can’t go. Can’t go like this. Can’t tell him-”

“Perfectly understandable. Where should I bring you then? There’s more than enough space in Castle Black, could fit-”

“Not the castle!” She snaps suddenly. “Nothing there but-”

“That’s fine,” I reassure. “Not the castle. However I can't leave you alone in the streets or at some foul tavern but I’m also currently incapable of accompanying you until I feel it’s safe to leave you unaccompanied. So please I beg of you, give me someone trustworthy to whom I can bring you.”

She doesn’t respond.

“A friend,” I prompt, “perhaps a relative by marriage, even just some vague acquaintance.”

“Saint Grey’s Street,” she mumbles, the thought of the place makes her look slightly happier for a moment. “House eight.”

“Grey’s Street,” I echo. “House eight. I know the way.”

Granted it's particularly hard not to know the way, just spend enough time with the hedonists and thieves, you’ll eventually end up in one of the gutters or poppy homes. Who the girl could possibly know in that warren is beyond me. Only thing that matters is that they'll care for her.

Saint Grey was named so not for his view on right and wrong but for the ashes he left behind him. Fifty years ago this was the plague district then Grey came burning the sick with his hands alone till nothing but teeth remained. This street was where he started. This street had to be completely reconstructed once he left.

A necessary task. Plague would continue to cripple our city if left to fester here.

They could have done a prettier job rebuilding.

Now that the plague has migrated further south this district is merely a cheap one to reside with. Beggar, addicts, degenerates, artists and liars have made this their territory. The tavern is their place to hide. The smokehouses are their cracks in the world to slip through. I'm just an invader.

House eight is of a reasonable size. Constructed from brick with several windows covered with paper, only allowing silhouettes to be seen from the outside. The door is sturdy oak and has a little glass slit to see out at whoever is calling. I pound on it three times and am surprised by who answers. The whore I left my purse with. She's not wearing the mask anymore, her dark hair is wild, she wears nothing more them a short tunic. She smiles wryly at me and opens the door wider presumably to invite me in. The smile dies when she sees the girl clinging to my arm.

"My money's worth," I explain when she looks back to me.

She dragged us in and gently took the girl away from my arm. I don't know where she brought her. They went upstairs and I stayed in the hall, feeling a stab of jealousy at how easily she left me. I explored the house finding it to be disappointingly tame and incredibly neat. It had a dining room, a storage closet and a small kitchen. Oddest thing I found was a small shrine to Prosim and even then such things aren't terribly uncommon here. The church of fire has eradicated most of them in the east and the west have adopted some obscure philosophy revolving around some idol they dragged out of the sea but we still cling to most of our old gods. The church of fire has assimilated and transmuted almost all of them to make converting us easier. Prosim became a kind saint of warmth and charity. A child's expectation of a saint of fire. Originally she was a goddess of beauty and lust.

When the whore returned she left the girl upstairs. I could no longer hear the crying. She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and pushed me into it despite my protests.

"Thank you," I say after a few seconds of awkward silence.

She still doesn't speak, just smiles at me kindly.

We could have her. Hell, we gave her enough money to have her for the rest of summer in the silk sheets of Castle Black.

"You can keep her happy?"

Nodding.

"Good," I say plainly. It's more than I could do for her, more than I could ever do. "You have enough money to buy an entire farm. If she wants something you give it to her, it doesn't matter if it's a barrel of wine or a racehorse. If she wants to go somewhere you bring her there and you accompany her every second. You devote every shred of your attention to her. Should you somehow need more finances contact me and I will supply."

She nods eagerly in response.

"When you find her to be… ready to be unaccompanied contact me."

I begin to rise when suddenly another thought hits me.

"She wouldn't have happened to give you her name?" I inquire, quickly adding on; "to help find and notify her family of the situation."

She just smiles silently. I remember in the stories Karis used to tell me the hero had to spout several paragraphs to convince the silent druid to just say yes to his marriage proposal. I was never incredibly fond of playing such games for anyone's entertainment so instead I pull a pen from my pocket.

"There's no rule against writing I believe."

She's clearly annoyed by this abrupt end to her fun but takes the pen, finds a loose piece of paper and writes in an incredibly small but neat script.

At first I assume what she wrote to be a joke but the whore doesn't laugh. I stare at the name for a few more seconds hoping I've misinterpreted some letter but nothing changes. Then a smile cracks across my face and laughter forces its way out of my throat. It's so very interesting when the unfortunate truth is much funnier than a joke. Somehow so very funny that such a sweet young girl called Allison could be the daughter of such a sadistic, ruthless bastard called Jermas Fires.