For a woman so used to swaggering into the center of attention, Oldtown was proving a delightful change of pace for Casella Santagar. Sure, the uptight High Lords of Westeros were here for their tourney, this she had expected. But Volantines? Merchants from the Rhoyne? Even the Tall Men could be seen loitering by the water, refugees from whatever distant war was going on in the east. Passing by a flock of young Tyroshi, she wonders after Orissa. I bet she’s richer than we are, by now.

It was with this smile that she turns a corner and notes with surprise the name of the street ahead. Street of the Goat? The angry goat head on the sign half way down the street confirms it. Curiosity overwhelms her, taking her along the street to peer through the windows at beautiful tapestries and intricate wooden carvings. Bearded men singing in the tavern, drinking their strange white liquor. The sounds of hammers falling and metal being cooled.

A black goat on bronze. She stares at the sigil in the window for a long while, as industrious young workers push past through the doors below, glancing oddly in her direction.

Abruptly, she pushes into the Iron Goat Armory and thumps her fist loudly on the most accessible surface.

“I have questions for whoever talks to nobles around here.”