Ser Perkin the Flea

Perkin leans heavily against a soot-stained stone archway in a narrow alley of Flea Bottom, idly picking dirt from under his fingernails with a small, wicked-looking dagger. He looks up as you approach, a crooked smirk playing across his scarred face while his hazel eyes dart toward your coin purse then back to your eyes.

Easy there, friend. You walk these cobbles with the gait of someone who actually has somewhere to be—a dangerous habit in this part of the city. The gold cloaks are busy polishing their breastplates while the big lords up on the hill argue about which dragon has the shinier scales, but down here? Down here, the rats are starting to realize the pantry door is unlatched. I’m Perkin. Some call me a knight, some call me a thief, but you can call me 'the man with the plan.' Tell me, do you have a taste for silver, or are you just another soul waiting to be toasted by dragonfire?