Iron Hans & The Queen's Ransom

No one gave the cloaked figure a second glance. There was nothing remarkable about wanting to remain anonymous in this particular establishment. If the law or a debt collector wasn't after you, then you'd be drinking somewhere nicer than the Wet Dog Tavern.

Two brawny men were arm-wrestling over the counter. The one on the customer side was clearly losing, his ill-fitting cap stuck to his sweaty brow, but he kept struggling valiantly until his opponent slammed their joined hands against the bar.

"Now pay up and beat it," ordered the winner, pulling back to rub his forearm. "I've got real customers to serve."

"Cheating bastard!" the loser swore. All the same, he fumbled for his coinpurse with his left hand.

Both of them were startled by a short sharp laugh from the cloaked figure, who had reached the counter and was leaning casually against it.

The barkeep recovered first, sidling over with a well-practiced smile.

"Pint of the house brew?" he suggested, already reaching for a wooden stein.

The cloaked figure nodded, then pointed to the shelf behind the bar, indicating a huge metal beer stein.

"Oh, a treble? As you wish, friend."

The barkeep smirked as he filled the stein. No one ever finished a drink this large, but they'd pay for it all the same, and he'd serve the rest to a regular patron too drunk to taste its staleness.

When he slid the stein across the bar, the gloved hand that reached for it settled delicately on the handle. It appeared to take some effort to raise the heavy cup with one hand, but the cloaked figure's other hand was occupied with keeping their hood from slipping out of place. Whoever they were, they weren't taking any chances of being found out.

"Drake never gives ME the good mug," grumbled the loser of the arm-wrestling contest, counting out coins with a still-shaky hand.

"That's because you're a rotten scoundrel, Otto," the barkeep replied with a grin. "Stop trying to win free drinks for a while, and maybe I'll consider letting you have a turn."

Otto scowled, slapped his last coin onto the counter, and staggered away.

Drake swept the money into his hand and pocketed it without counting. The amount was always a penny or two short, but it wasn't enough of a loss to bother him. It was a miracle that the worst pickpocket in town even had that much to spend on bad beer.

"Now, then..." He turned back to the stranger and noted that they'd set the stein down. From this angle, he couldn't tell how much beer was left. "That'll be tenpenny and four, sir, when you've had your fill."

The cloaked figure tossed something into the air. Drake caught it, expecting at most a twenty-pence piece; his eyes widened when he opened his hand to reveal a solid silver coin, as bright as if it had been minted yesterday.

"I, er... I don't..." He jangled the copper coins in his pockets: nowhere close to enough change for a silver mark. "I'm afraid I can't accept this."

The stranger shrugged. They raised the stein for another long drink.

Drake palmed the sweat from his forehead. Even if the cloaked figure drank a dozen steins' worth of beer, they'd still be owed more in change than he'd made in a week. He knew from experience that cheating a stranger led to trouble nine times out of ten, and he didn't like those odds.

A flash of inspiration put the smile back on his face.

"Tell you what: let's make a friendly wager. If I can pin your arm to the bar, I'll keep your silver. If you best me, I'll give it back."

The cloaked figure's hood tilted to one side. Drake forced a little extra pleasantness into his smile.

"You can trust me—no matter what Otto says, I've never cheated when money's on the line. Ask anyone here; they'll back me up."

A couple of regulars, half watching over their ales, murmured in vague agreement. Encouraged, Drake rested his elbow on the bar and offered the stranger his hand.

The stranger seemed to be staring at him, though their face was so thoroughly shadowed by their hood that he couldn't even swear they had eyes at all.

They picked up the mug with both hands, its handle pointing towards Drake.

Their gloved hands came together and flattened the metal stein as easily as if it were made of wet clay. They dropped the misshapen mass of metal onto the bar, and the sound of its fall woke up even the doziest of the drunks.

Drake's mind went blank. A tiny observation echoed in the emptiness: The stranger had finished off the beer without a drop to spare.

"Ah," he said, barely.

The cloaked figure leaned forward and spoke in a harsh whisper:

"Let's call it even."

All Drake could think to do was nod. The stranger turned away and strolled out of the Wet Dog without another word.

It was one of the regulars who finally broke the stunned silence.

"Boys... I bet that was Iron Hans."

Suddenly all the patrons were talking at once, exclaiming or arguing or questioning, and a handful made a beeline to the bar to examine the ex-stein. The roughest crowd in the city was enthralled by the notion that a real celebrity had stopped by "their" bar.

"Have that thing mounted and put it on the wall!"

"I can't hardly believe I saw Iron Hans with me own eye."

"Lucky he didn't take you up on that bet, eh, barkeep?"

Drake nodded vaguely at this last statement, hardly registering the words. His brain, tolerably clever as it was, couldn't wrap itself around what had just happened.

Iron Hans. The mysterious mercenary. The strongest man in seven kingdoms. The only person to gain the trust of Eddard the Faithless, to whom not even his own children were above suspicion.

Drake would have been hollering with the rest of them about this auspicious day if not for one small inconsistency.

The voice that whispered to him, low and harsh as it was, seemed... wrong, somehow. Something about it just didn't fit.

Someone slapped him on the back and knocked the thoughts right out of his head.

"How about a round on the house, Drake, me lad?"

Drake shook his head. A dozen voices groaned and pleaded with him.

"Half price til midnight," he announced, to universal cheers. "Cash up front!"

He made a firm decision, then and there, that he must have misheard. The alternative was too much for a simple barkeep to comprehend—even a tolerably clever one.