Flea Bottom was a special sort of hell, it had to be. The scent of death hung around the edges, and the sharp shape of ribs and clavicles beneath skin stretched thin was proof enough for the princess of Dorne. Elia was resplendent in an orange gown, a cloak of crimson flowing from her shoulders and the band of golden suns circling her brow. Her dark hair fell around her fact, for once near devoid of any cosmetics. She was Dornish, but the Westron cut of the gown and the fact she was here spoke for themselves. The men-at-arms too wore the sigil of House Martell and kept the crowd at bay as they pressed around her. The captain was, as her brother threatened a grizzled veteran who had probably seen more campaigns than she could count. At least he was pleasant, though not exactly talkative. She’d near given up getting a complete sentence out of him, but he was efficient and that was sufficient for the moment.
Elia handed out bread by the dockside, but on the street called Widows Way where the beggars were usually women, sometimes even widows, but more often whores too old to work and never comely enough to earn a retirement, and their children at their sides. There she distributed the coins, and when those were mostly gone, and the crowd was nearly a throng, she had the first edge of unease. She found herself asking one of the women where she could find the house of healing hereabouts. The woman laughed but at Elia’s expression she explained that there wasn’t one. Fire had taken it, oh, a while ago and no one had fixed it. They used the Sept now, but the fever weren’t all gone and best a lady didn’t go there. Elia pointed at her guards. “I don’t think it should be a problem. Would you lead us?”
The captain had turned an interesting shade of purple. “Princess, that is not the plan. You distribute the alms and we go back to the palace.”
A full sentence. She was impressed. “The plan changed. Just now. The rest of the coins will go to the families of the sick,” Elia said in a voice loud and clear enough for the rest to hear. “This plague has had more victims than the graves can hold already, and their families will follow them if they cannot eat.” She turned back to the woman she’d spoken to. “Now, where can we find them…?”
Someone jostled the guards and Elia found herself nearly crushed between two of them. There were calls of ‘Aeria’ in the air and she winced, but there were also cries for Dorne and Martell. Very nice, as long as they didn’t rip her apart as a show of enthusiasm.