"Just shut up," Kellson growled, "and get me the regular, cheap-ass beer before I glass you in the face and let you marinate in your own blood. Savvy?"

The bartender, deciding his health took priority over a monologue elaborating on the joys of more expensive alcohol, scurried off. Kellson hated these types of bars. He was perfectly content drinking the normal beer (there were two kinds: urine flavored, and watered-down urine flavored)...he didn't need or want anything else, especially in a business talk.

His employer, in contrast, had ordered a glass of vintage champagne. The man, hooded and cloaked--wow, Kellson had thought sarcastically, I've never seen that before--had barely said a word, except that he was waiting for a second hired gun to come. The regicide hated working on a contract with help, especially a woman's, but the pay was good enough that he had just shrugged.

His beer arrived, and, as expected, it was watered-down urine flavored. Kellson put his hells up on the table, ignoring the sniff of distaste from the employer, and pulled out a cigarette.

Same old story: bad king out, good king in. Kellson was starting to think that he needed a new job, something with more excitement. Assassinations grew old after a while. If you've seen one castle, you've seen them all. Plus, he wasn't getting stronger with all these easy contracts. Nothing ever changed with this job...

The tavern's doors creaked open, and a beautiful woman walked in. Kellson took a drag from the cigarette, looking her up and down. He knew that posture, that stance. She would be the other, the one the employer spoke of.

Very niiiiice. This might be interesting after all...or at least, the lady would be.

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Kellson (Deceased). Johnny Bones (Only Technically Deceased).A witticism goes here.