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Lord Sodi of House Kiss-Bata
The dungeon air was thick enough to chew, tasting of wet straw, ancient stone, and the sour reek of a man who had soiled himself on Arbor gold.

Lord Sodi sat hunched upon a three-legged stool that wobbled with every twitch of his knee. He wore a cloak that had once been a riot of color—a motley of seven hues intended to honor the Faith, though the Seven had long since turned their faces from him. Now, the rainbow wool was stiff with grime, mud, and stains that looked suspiciously like dried blood. Over his eyes, he wore lenses of smoked glass from Yi Ti, hiding a gaze that was rumored to be both watery and mad.

Above him hung the tattered banner of his house: a seal, fat and sorrowful, rendered in clumsy stitches of thread, looking as though it regretted its very existence. The Beast of the Bay, they called it, though the smallfolk just called it "The Sad Fish."

Sodi took a pull from a wineskin that was more air than vintage. He was a ruin of a man, a grotesque parody of the nobility he was born into.

For Sodi had not begun in the mud. He was whelped in the shadow of the Red Keep, swaddled in Myrish lace and fed with silver spoons. His family held vaults of gold in the capital, and the world had been laid at his feet like a feast. Yet, the rot was deep in him. In his youth, possessed by a vanity as vast as it was fragile, he cast his lot with the "Sons of the Iron Star," a band of violent zealots who preached the purity of the realm. He wasted his family’s fortune funding their hate, marching in their ranks, only for them to realize he was a fool and cast him aside.

It was a woman who drove him across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. She was a painter, a free spirit with hair like spun gold, who had told him plainly she held no affection for him. But Sodi’s ears heard only what they wished. He followed her to the great city of canals and stone, stalking her shadow. He offered to build a system of ledgers and ravens to manage her gallery, a kindness that was but a mask; in truth, he intercepted her sealed scrolls, reading her private words with jealous, feverish eyes.

When she finally severed his strings, his retaliation was pathetic. He sent her a moving picture—projected via his dark arts—in which he wept and raged, accusing the lady of stealing his favorite velvet coat. It was a mummer’s farce, but he played it as a tragedy.

Broken by rejection, he spiraled. He sought to entertain the masses of the Free Cities, utilizing a Myrish lantern to project images upon a wall—images of his own kin, stark naked and frolicking like beasts. The High Septon declared it an abomination; the City Watch called it public indecency.

He became a creature of the bathhouses, a terror known for casting aside his towel to waggle his sizeable manhood at unsuspecting washerwomen. "The Dragon has three heads," he would cackle, "but I have only the one!"

His crimes grew darker. He took up with a mummer from the lower city—a woman born a man, cast out to the streets. In a fit of jealous bile, he plotted to poison her former lover, a beggar woman of Flea Bottom, lacing a cask of cheap ale with nightshade.


He fled back to Westeros, a disgrace. Upon his return, he sought to master the driving of the heavy iron-rimmed wains, the carriages of the lords. Five times he took the Master of Horse’s examination, and five times he failed, crashing into fences and market stalls. The Grand Maester himself was summoned to examine Sodi’s wits. The verdict was scrawled in black ink: “The subject possesses a deviation of the mind towards the negative side.” He was deemed unfit to hold the reins of even a donkey cart.

His history with the dungeons was already well-written. During a previous six-month confinement in the gaol, Sodi had boasted loudly to anyone who would listen that he was mastering the rolling, passionate tongue of the Dornishmen. He claimed to have learned it from a cellmate, a spearman from Sunspear. Yet, upon his release, when he attempted to haggle with a Dornish spice merchant in the market square, Sodi froze. He stood with his mouth agape, sputtering nonsense sounds like a drowning fish. He knew not a single word. The smallfolk threw mud and laughed, and the shame burned hotter than the Dorne sun.

When the Gold Cloaks finally came for him, Sodi stood on the threshold of his ancestral hovel, swaying, brandishing a rusting longsword. He screamed threats at the officers, promising to flay them, to feed them to his seals, to loop their guts around the castle walls.

"Hear Me Loop!" he muttered now to the damp walls, reciting the nonsensical words of his house.

The gaoler rattled the bars. "Quiet, scum. The Magistrate speaks of eight years in the black cells for you."

Lord Sodi grinned, his teeth yellow and broken behind the grey thicket of his beard. He adjusted his dark spectacles, the last remnant of a life thoroughly wasted. Eight years. Enough time to rot. Enough time to plan. Enough time to loop.