Serenei

part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

[sereneiii]

❝🄷e is my master.❞

( Closed starter with @davos-allyrion )

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Serenei gazed down at the spiraling, wine cellar steps built deep inside the Red Keep. She paused, then bent over.

Yellow hair swept over Serenei's ankles whIle she worked to unfasten her sabots. She stepped out of the shoes and clapped them once together to loosens the dirt from their stiff, leather heels before tucking them into her armpit. Serenei flexed her toes against the rim of the stone steps, feeling the pleasant chill through her hose. With one hand grazing the wall and the other holding up her generous skirts, the servant girl descended. She ignored the candlestick that sat on a bench beside the lone torch in the hallway. It illuminated only the top of the stairwell. After two turns of the staircase, she was stepping counter-clockwise in darkness, counting each step, locating them only with her toes. Serenei knew better than to bring a light into the cellar. If the Red Keep staff caught her in this place with her superior lurking nearby, it would spoil the entire mission. She would hide in the shadowy recesses made by the wine casks until any potential interlopers left. Her superior did not expect they would be disturbed here. But, Serenei had yet to see his judgement proven steadfast. She relied on her intuition, always. It was all she had.

The bottom of the stairwell was cast in impenetrable black. Serenei lifted her leg out and found the ground there was flat, finally. She wondered if she were not alone, hoped even, that there was someone waiting for her in the dark. It was exhilarating. She felt truly alive under these conditions, every sense tuned towards the dark, using her hands and feet to measure every inch of the room, feeling her heart hammer. She found an alcove by touch and decided to wait there.

Something scurred over her foot-- a rat! She yelped. Her shoes fell in her shock and clattered against the floor. She brought a flint from her pocket and lit it, trembling. She decided she had enough of mystery for today.

[davos-allyrion]

The brothel smelled of perfume, sweat, and stale wine, thick enough to coat Davos’ tongue like rancid oil. The music in the main hall was loud, punctuated by raucous laughter and the occasional drunken shout, but it didn’t quite reach the private rooms. Here, the world was smaller, quieter, and reeked of something he couldn’t yet name but already loathed.

The woman before him was older than he’d expected, with kohl-lined eyes that studied him with quiet patience. She was waiting for him to speak, to move, to do something. But Davos remained still, his fists clenched at his sides. He could still hear the laughter outside the door, the low murmur of Mors’ voice as he flirted with another woman, completely at ease. As she reached out to touch him, Davos flinched.

“First time?” she asked, voice soft, practiced.

He nodded stiffly. He was barely fourteen. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home. He wanted to braid Nymeria’s hair, listen to Larra prattle on about the birds she had seen that day, and mix paints with Kierra until their fingers were stained with color.

Instead, he was here.

The woman sighed and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to be scared.”

But Davos wasn’t scared. He was angry. Not at her, not even at Mors—though that anger would come later—but at the whole damnable place, at the expectation that he should be here, that this was what made a man.

He turned to her fully, noticing then the faint discoloration beneath her makeup. A bruise, old enough to have darkened, but not enough to be hidden completely. When she smiled again, he caught the wince, the way her tongue flicked against her inner lip, as if soothing a wound.

“Who did that?” His voice was quieter than he expected, but no less sharp.

She blinked, caught off guard, before laughing lightly. “Clumsy thing, I am. Fell.”

She was lying. He knew what a real lie sounded like. He had told enough of them himself.

Wordlessly, he stood, moving toward the small washbasin in the corner of the room. He found a clean cloth, dipped it in cool water, and returned to her. She watched him with wary amusement as he lifted it to her cheek, dabbing gently.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in, and she fell silent.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and reached for his belt. For a moment, her expression closed off, as if bracing herself, but then he pulled free the small satchel of herbs he carried. He found what he needed—goldenroot, willow bark—and began crushing them in his palm, adding a few drops of water from the basin.

She watched him work, a strange sort of curiosity replacing her caution. “You know healing?”

“A little.”

“You’ve done this before,” she murmured.

Davos shrugged. “Nymeria, my sister, falls out of trees. A lot.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “Lucky girl, to have a brother who tends to her scrapes.”

Davos didn’t answer. His stomach churned at the thought of Mors outside, laughing with the other men, drinking in the perfume-drenched air as though this was some grand adventure. A rite of passage.

The woman winced when the salve touched the corner of her mouth, where a split ran along the inside of her lip. Davos hesitated. “Do you want to rinse first?”

She stared at him, then let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re a strange one, little lord.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing, only handed her the water. When she finished, she sat back and regarded him for a long moment.

“You don’t belong here,” she finally said.

“I know.”

“Then why did he bring you?”

Davos swallowed. “Because I’m supposed to be a man.”

The woman’s expression darkened. She reached out, brushing an ink-stained thumb over his knuckles, her touch light. “You already are.”

Davos didn’t wait for Mors. He left as soon as the heavy doors of the brothel closed behind him, stepping into the cool night air. The scent of jasmine still clung to him, but beneath it, he could smell the familiar desert wind, the dry heat of home.

When Mors returned hours later, drunk and reeking of conquest, Davos was awake. He didn’t say a word as his brother collapsed onto his bed, slurring something incoherent. He didn’t say anything the next morning, either.

But something had shifted between them. The distance stretched, thin and taut like a thread about to snap. And when it finally did—when Mors left with only a letter and a dream—Davos did not chase after him.

He simply stepped forward, sixteen years old and already tired, to take his brother’s place.

On the day Davos ascended into lordship, he booked a full day in each brothels. All of the prostitutes put on their best acts, presuming the creation of a harem. Davos did not come with charming smiles and jewelry. He came with parchment, ink, and a quiet, piercing gaze. One by one, he sat with them, asked them their names, their stories. Why had they chosen this life? Had they ever been given another option?

Most had not.

He did not ask them to weep for their sorrows, nor did he offer empty apologies. Instead, he gave them choices. Those who wished to leave the trade were offered patronage: gold, new homes, and an education. Those who wished to remain were given coin and a warning to leave the city, to never set foot in Godsgrace again. He would not abide their old masters here.

Some resisted. The brothel owners raged, calling him mad, a tyrant who thought he could unmake the world with a single decree. They believed he would fold beneath the weight of their outrage, but Davos was not a boy anymore, nor was he a man who tolerated opposition for long. The first brothel owner who defied him was found three days later, his tongue removed and his body left in the square as a lesson. The others fell silent after that.

And so, the brothels were emptied. Some of the women and men who had once worked behind those perfumed walls now worked as teachers in the schools Davos built. Others took up trades, became merchants, fishers, healers. A former prostitute had begged to be taken in by the septas, and Davos had ensured it was done, no matter how many maesters balked at the idea.

The brothels of Godsgrace burned at dawn.

He did not stay to watch the flames devour the places he had once feared, but the people of Godsgrace did. They murmured about their lord, about what he was doing to their city.

It was not only the brothels. The coin that once lined the pockets of pimps and flesh merchants was now funding the construction of schools. Where there had once been darkened alleys filled with whispered transactions, there were now halls filled with children and elders, both tracing their letters in the sand, learning sums and histories they had never been given the luxury to know.

Some called him mad. Others called him just.

Davos called it necessary.

Davos had been watching from the moment she entered the cellar. He always watched first. It was a habit, an instinct, and one of the reasons he was still breathing after all these years. Davos heard her before he saw her. A sharp yelp, the clatter of shoes against stone—rookie mistakes, but forgivable. He allowed himself a brief, private smirk in the dark. Gevii. She was better than this.

He had seen many men and women die with less reaction than she gave to a rodent brushing her foot. He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he stepped soundlessly from the shadows as she fumbled with the flint, the small spark catching in her shaking hands. In one swift motion, he caught her by the wrist and pulled her into an alcove, shrouding them both in darkness. She tensed against him, her breath coming sharp and quick, but he felt the moment she recognized him. She stilled.

“Gevii,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears alone. He never called her Serenei. She might wear the name like a mask, but he had known the face beneath it for too long to be fooled.

He let go of her wrist. His touch was rare, calculated, always a necessity rather than a habit. He was not one for reassurances or comforts, but he gave her the space to regain herself. The flint had gone out in the scuffle. Good. He had no desire to be seen.

“I read your letter.” His voice was quiet, the kind of hush that required listening. “You have my thanks, as always. My eagles serve me well.”

Davos did not waste words, nor did he flatter. A thank you from him was rare, given only when earned. He let the silence settle between them, letting her absorb it, letting her measure what it meant.

Then, as if asking about the weather, he said, “Do you need to leave the lions?”

No reaction, not immediately. But he was watching, always watching. The shift in her breathing, the tension in her shoulders. Serenei was bracing.

“I’ve heard whispers,” he continued, voice even, unreadable. “Things I don’t think I need to repeat.”

He leaned in, not to intimidate but to remind her that there was no point in lying. Not to him. “You know better than most that I have little patience for pretty fictions.”

He let that sit between them. If she was smart—and she was—she would understand that the question was not a formality. He was giving her an out. If she was compromised, he would remove her. If she was faltering, he would end it before it became a liability. His network had no room for hesitation.

[sereneiii]

Serenei tasted blood. She bit her cheek from shock when the lord grabbed her, although she made no more sound. Only her hitching breath greeted Davos as she whirled around on her feet, stumbling first into his arms, and then reeling backwards as she shoved away from the Dornish nobleman. Serenei struggled to speak at first.

“Da-vos,” she spat, hissing his name in a harsh whisper. “Gods above, you scared me half way to hell and back. Oof, what terrible, terrible man you are, grabbing a lady. You will never have a wife at this rate. Perhaps you really are a eunuch. Perhaps you are not, and you are accustomed to grabbing ladies when you need your way with them. ” Serenei fixed her sleeves where Davos had wrenched her by the arm. She redid her buttons, frowning when she realized one had gone missing. The light from her little candle swept across the floor. Another rat scurried behind Davos's foot, but she did not see the wooden peg that tore from her shirt seam. Serenei wrinkled her nose. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms from the harrowing memory of rat bites and scratches she sustained while stowing away on the long trip to God's Grace. Her back itched. She flexed her shoulders back, trying to shrug off the cloying, phantom sensation of pestilence.

Serenei loathed rats. She despised her reintroduction to poverty and longed to retreat to the shelter that was life as Lady Perianne, her noble identity. That ruse wore itself thin. It was no longer feasible to pretend she was destined for luxury. Serenei supposed everything came to an end-- in time, she would shed life as Serenei. Would she ever be Gevii again? Serenei hoped not. Hearing her birth name made Serenei rankle. She folded her arms and tapped her foot while Davos spoke. It wounded what little pride she had that Davos had to learn her secret. She had no other way to buy his mercy-- her true nature was all she had to offer as collateral when the lord caught her stealing his sister's jewelry. She had impressed him enough with her knowledge of his motherland, his castle layout, even her assessment of his guards. But, Serenei knew the peculiar allyship of a lord and a criminal would only exist so long as she kept herself useful, as a spy, as her dornish master's spider…

“Do I need to leave the lions?” Serenei repeated, in a murmur. It helped her catch Davos's meaning. I've heard whispers.

She smirked at his insipid modesty, finding his circuitous refusal to mention sex droll in the worst way. Serenei took a step towards the young lord, rolling her hips as she came to stand against him, her nose almost brushing his chest. She craned her neck to look him in the eye, leaning one hand on her hip.

“I don't understand what you mean, M'Lord. I've yet to encounter an obstacle in Casterly Rock I can't surmount. I have even allowed others to surmount me, if the job requires it. Understand?” Serenei laughed, low and haughty. “Because you have shown me such kindness by sparing my life, I am prepared to describe each and every occasion that I've lain with Johanna Lannister. It could be quite useful for you-- she lacks a male appendage.”

Serenei's chidings dripped with spiteful malice. She did not want to rile Davos so much so that he scorned her, so she quickly smoothed her attitude and tried to quip, pleasantly, “I am alright. I don't mind it, actually. It's curious behavior, but… Well, I am learning so many new things in this new land.”

Serenei snickered through her fingers. Suddenly, her poise was girlish, deceptively quaint. She handed the candle to Davos and swung away from him on the balls of her feet, hands clasped behind her back. Even her voice changed. It was as if she waned into an entirely different person, this one defanged and declawed, like a striped rose.

“Hum, hum, let's seee, Lady Johanna has an established preference for girls, young girls. Not too young-- don't excite yourself. She is not on speaking terms with Jason Lannister-- I've no idea why, yet. They are both notorious philanderers. It is an open secret, more for Jason than Johanna-- as Johanna has far more to lose. Lady Tyshara Lannister is marrying, uhmmm, lord- looord… rod-er-rick?” Serenei paused, looking to Davos for approval. “Oh, oh yes, and… Loreon, the littlest lion, the son, is always deathly ill. He may die.”

All the while Serenei spoke, she counted on her fingers. When she reached her thumbs, she balled her fists and shoved them in her pockets. “Well, that's all. I have written reports on some of Johanna's trade agreements. I have the privilege to sleep in her chambers. I would say this is a good arrangement, and, ah, she is not bad to look at. Haven't you seen her?”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos rolled his eyes, swallowing his frustration like bitter medicine. Even in the shadows, the dance remained the same. Thief and executioner. Maid and lord. Spy and butcher. Serenei fancied herself clever, believed herself untouchable. But she was no cat lapping at cream; she was a bird perched on the rim of an arrow, wings fluttering in blissful ignorance, mistaking peril for poise.

He let her twirl, let her preen, let her spin her words like silk meant to ensnare. But Davos had no patience for her games, nor for the smugness laced in every syllable. She knew he was not a man to seize or force, that he had never taken what wasn’t freely given. Yet she mocked him all the same, as though she believed herself immune to consequence, shielded by her arrogance.

Davos stepped forward, his movements deliberate even in the dark, and caught Serenei’s face in his rough hands. His calloused palms cradled her jaw, his fingers pressing gently but firmly against the delicate skin of her cheeks. It was not a grab, but a hold, the same way he’d steady his sisters when he needed them to listen, to truly understand. How unbecoming of a lord to have such coarse hands. But then, Davos was unbecoming in many ways. The chemicals he wielded had their price, and soon, so would she.

He felt the faint flutter of her breath, saw the candlelight flicker in her widened pupils. Fear? Anger? Did she think he would strike her? No. That was not his way. Davos had never been one for senseless violence, Serenei knew that. He had cupped her face the first time he caught her stealing, not in punishment, but in offering, in promise. A new beginning. And yet now, he let her feel the weight of his displeasure, the gravity of her recklessness pressing between them like an unsheathed blade.

“Foolish girl,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. He had not brought Serenei here to be a thief, nor a whore. He had not risked his name, his station, for her to prance about like a common guttersnipe, mistaking cunning for invincibility.

“Did you truly think you were the first?” His tone was soft, but it carried no warmth. “Did you think no one else has played this game before? That no one else has reached the heights you have?” He tilted his head, studying her. “Do you think you’re cleverer than them? Sharper? Better?”

The questions hung between them, heavy with implication. Then, quieter still, he added, “The only difference between them and you is time. And time runs thinner with every step you take.”

Davos exhaled, slow and measured, loosening his grip but not his resolve. “You will leave the Lannisters once the succession is settled.” His tone brooked no argument, no playful retort.

There was no winning this game, not for her, not in the way she imagined. It was only a matter of who knew when to step away from the table before the knives came out.

Beneath his frustration, there was something else—something sharper, colder. Concern. He was not blind to the truth of her arrangement with Johanna. No matter how Serenei dressed it up in wit and silk, no matter how much she pretended to wield control, the balance would never tip in her favor. Johanna was older, richer, truly untouchable. Serenei was merely a toy, to be played with until her novelty wore thin. And for all her defiance, for all her sharp edges, Davos wondered if she truly understood that.

He released her, but the decision had already been made. Serenei would leave. Whether she walked away or was dragged, well, that was up to her.

He took a step back, his voice dropping to a murmur, a final note of warning. “I protect my own, Serenei. Even you.” His gaze lingered, another promise. “Besides, your brother is in Godsgrace, is he not? Preparing to join the Citadel?” A pause, deliberate. “I’m sure he would like to have you around for a few moons.”

[sereneiii]

Serenei swayed forward like a kitten in her mother's mouth when Davos grabbed her by the jaw. Her hands fell to her sides. She clutched a small roll of parchment between her index and middle finger.

Serenei had half a mind to drop the note and allow it to fester in the basement until someone discovered its contents, anyone other than Davos. The lord stunk of cologne. Serenei found the stench more cloying than the usual musk of untidy men. She grimaced, nostrils flaring as Davos spoke down to her. She forced herself to look him in the eyes, even as she noticed shadows flickering around them.

The stiller the pair remained and the longer they spent in the cellar, the bolder the rats grew. Their bodies drew long shapes in the lone candle light. Serenei felt one against her ankle. She tore away from Davos, but found his grip too strong. The hand cupping her chin made her lips puff out and the baby fat on her jawline roll indecently. She pouted, looking more like a child than ever before.

“I do not think I am better than anyone.” Serenei did think she was better than them, all of them. She had seen more of the world than Johanna-- despite her years. She had struggled more than Davos-- regardless of his efforts to change his slice of Dorne. Serenei had no lands, but she wielded an imperious ego. Davos's dose of reality did not upset Serenei. Rather, she swallowed his bitter truth and substantiated it with her own. Her delusional confidence allowed her to lie with conviction.

Serenei screwed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she peered at Davos through knitted lashes, looking vexed and weary as if weighed down by the force of her master's disappointment.

“Forgive me, I speak carelessly as it's within my nature to jest when I feel anxious. My relationship with Johanna does bother me, and I am lucky your lordship will rescue me from her perverse behavior,” Serenei said. She sighed and pressed her note against the fist that flexed against her jaw. “I have transcribed some of Lady Johanna's trade policy related to Dornish imports to the realm. It is as you feared-- the Lannisters are unparalleled in their ambition and greed.”

The note Serenei delivered to Davos was encrypted with a simple cipher code. She was not confident in spelling. Serenei took great pains to copy Johanna's notes exactly as they were written, albeit in pieces. Her intelligence described plans to undercut Davos's prices for medicinal herbs and open a market for their sale in Lannisport. The Lannisters would buy product directly from the Dornish gentry, whose lands farmed the cash crops in large quantities. Johanna had arranged these secretive trade agreements with minor houses weakened by the Allyrion's stringent quality control measures. The conspirators were already meeting the Lannisters in the Summer Sea to offload barrels of product. Herbs were shipped to Lannisport and then distributed as genuine, Dornish produce at a mark down as they had never been taxed by House Allyrion. Johanna would flood the market with inferior, low-cost herbs. Most would never realize the difference in quality, but for some, the effects of medicine would be greatly diminished, or toxic.

This was valuable intelligence. But several issues spoiled the little note's power to change things for Davos:

Firstly, it was hard to tell which members of the Dornish gentry were involved. Serenei's foreignness was apparent when she gave the names of the traitorous, little lords. For all her cleverness, Serenei didn't realize Johanna only referred to her collaborators by codename. She borrowed names from famous Dornish ponies and war horses. There was one notable exception, a name that would burn Davos.

It would be difficult to catch smugglers in the act at sea. Trade networks around the summer sea were well trafficked. Identifying the fleets importing goods to Lannisport would be challenging; they were well disguised and flew Tyroshi and Lyseni banners. Raiding suspicious vessels could spark regional conflict between the Allyrions and foreign navies.

Finally, there was the loose thread, the collaborator whose true identity stood alone amidst the list of codenames: YRONWOOD. Should Davos pull at that thread, hoping it would unravel the entire operation? Or, was it a trap…? Hastily punishing the traitor would reveal that one of his spies infiltrated Johanna's circle. She would be alerted to a mole's existence, whether or not she suspected it was her new paramore.

[sereneiii]

❝🄷e is my master.❞

( Closed starter with @davos-allyrion )

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Serenei gazed down at the spiraling, wine cellar steps built deep inside the Red Keep. She paused, then bent over.

Yellow hair swept over Serenei's ankles whIle she worked to unfasten her sabots. She stepped out of the shoes and clapped them once together to loosens the dirt from their stiff, leather heels before tucking them into her armpit. Serenei flexed her toes against the rim of the stone steps, feeling the pleasant chill through her hose. With one hand grazing the wall and the other holding up her generous skirts, the servant girl descended. She ignored the candlestick that sat on a bench beside the lone torch in the hallway. It illuminated only the top of the stairwell. After two turns of the staircase, she was stepping counter-clockwise in darkness, counting each step, locating them only with her toes. Serenei knew better than to bring a light into the cellar. If the Red Keep staff caught her in this place with her superior lurking nearby, it would spoil the entire mission. She would hide in the shadowy recesses made by the wine casks until any potential interlopers left. Her superior did not expect they would be disturbed here. But, Serenei had yet to see his judgement proven steadfast. She relied on her intuition, always. It was all she had.

The bottom of the stairwell was cast in impenetrable black. Serenei lifted her leg out and found the ground there was flat, finally. She wondered if she were not alone, hoped even, that there was someone waiting for her in the dark. It was exhilarating. She felt truly alive under these conditions, every sense tuned towards the dark, using her hands and feet to measure every inch of the room, feeling her heart hammer. She found an alcove by touch and decided to wait there.

Something scurred over her foot-- a rat! She yelped. Her shoes fell in her shock and clattered against the floor. She brought a flint from her pocket and lit it, trembling. She decided she had enough of mystery for today.

[davos-allyrion]

The brothel smelled of perfume, sweat, and stale wine, thick enough to coat Davos’ tongue like rancid oil. The music in the main hall was loud, punctuated by raucous laughter and the occasional drunken shout, but it didn’t quite reach the private rooms. Here, the world was smaller, quieter, and reeked of something he couldn’t yet name but already loathed.

The woman before him was older than he’d expected, with kohl-lined eyes that studied him with quiet patience. She was waiting for him to speak, to move, to do something. But Davos remained still, his fists clenched at his sides. He could still hear the laughter outside the door, the low murmur of Mors’ voice as he flirted with another woman, completely at ease. As she reached out to touch him, Davos flinched.

“First time?” she asked, voice soft, practiced.

He nodded stiffly. He was barely fourteen. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home. He wanted to braid Nymeria’s hair, listen to Larra prattle on about the birds she had seen that day, and mix paints with Kierra until their fingers were stained with color.

Instead, he was here.

The woman sighed and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to be scared.”

But Davos wasn’t scared. He was angry. Not at her, not even at Mors—though that anger would come later—but at the whole damnable place, at the expectation that he should be here, that this was what made a man.

He turned to her fully, noticing then the faint discoloration beneath her makeup. A bruise, old enough to have darkened, but not enough to be hidden completely. When she smiled again, he caught the wince, the way her tongue flicked against her inner lip, as if soothing a wound.

“Who did that?” His voice was quieter than he expected, but no less sharp.

She blinked, caught off guard, before laughing lightly. “Clumsy thing, I am. Fell.”

She was lying. He knew what a real lie sounded like. He had told enough of them himself.

Wordlessly, he stood, moving toward the small washbasin in the corner of the room. He found a clean cloth, dipped it in cool water, and returned to her. She watched him with wary amusement as he lifted it to her cheek, dabbing gently.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in, and she fell silent.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and reached for his belt. For a moment, her expression closed off, as if bracing herself, but then he pulled free the small satchel of herbs he carried. He found what he needed—goldenroot, willow bark—and began crushing them in his palm, adding a few drops of water from the basin.

She watched him work, a strange sort of curiosity replacing her caution. “You know healing?”

“A little.”

“You’ve done this before,” she murmured.

Davos shrugged. “Nymeria, my sister, falls out of trees. A lot.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “Lucky girl, to have a brother who tends to her scrapes.”

Davos didn’t answer. His stomach churned at the thought of Mors outside, laughing with the other men, drinking in the perfume-drenched air as though this was some grand adventure. A rite of passage.

The woman winced when the salve touched the corner of her mouth, where a split ran along the inside of her lip. Davos hesitated. “Do you want to rinse first?”

She stared at him, then let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re a strange one, little lord.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing, only handed her the water. When she finished, she sat back and regarded him for a long moment.

“You don’t belong here,” she finally said.

“I know.”

“Then why did he bring you?”

Davos swallowed. “Because I’m supposed to be a man.”

The woman’s expression darkened. She reached out, brushing an ink-stained thumb over his knuckles, her touch light. “You already are.”

Davos didn’t wait for Mors. He left as soon as the heavy doors of the brothel closed behind him, stepping into the cool night air. The scent of jasmine still clung to him, but beneath it, he could smell the familiar desert wind, the dry heat of home.

When Mors returned hours later, drunk and reeking of conquest, Davos was awake. He didn’t say a word as his brother collapsed onto his bed, slurring something incoherent. He didn’t say anything the next morning, either.

But something had shifted between them. The distance stretched, thin and taut like a thread about to snap. And when it finally did—when Mors left with only a letter and a dream—Davos did not chase after him.

He simply stepped forward, sixteen years old and already tired, to take his brother’s place.

On the day Davos ascended into lordship, he booked a full day in each brothels. All of the prostitutes put on their best acts, presuming the creation of a harem. Davos did not come with charming smiles and jewelry. He came with parchment, ink, and a quiet, piercing gaze. One by one, he sat with them, asked them their names, their stories. Why had they chosen this life? Had they ever been given another option?

Most had not.

He did not ask them to weep for their sorrows, nor did he offer empty apologies. Instead, he gave them choices. Those who wished to leave the trade were offered patronage: gold, new homes, and an education. Those who wished to remain were given coin and a warning to leave the city, to never set foot in Godsgrace again. He would not abide their old masters here.

Some resisted. The brothel owners raged, calling him mad, a tyrant who thought he could unmake the world with a single decree. They believed he would fold beneath the weight of their outrage, but Davos was not a boy anymore, nor was he a man who tolerated opposition for long. The first brothel owner who defied him was found three days later, his tongue removed and his body left in the square as a lesson. The others fell silent after that.

And so, the brothels were emptied. Some of the women and men who had once worked behind those perfumed walls now worked as teachers in the schools Davos built. Others took up trades, became merchants, fishers, healers. A former prostitute had begged to be taken in by the septas, and Davos had ensured it was done, no matter how many maesters balked at the idea.

The brothels of Godsgrace burned at dawn.

He did not stay to watch the flames devour the places he had once feared, but the people of Godsgrace did. They murmured about their lord, about what he was doing to their city.

It was not only the brothels. The coin that once lined the pockets of pimps and flesh merchants was now funding the construction of schools. Where there had once been darkened alleys filled with whispered transactions, there were now halls filled with children and elders, both tracing their letters in the sand, learning sums and histories they had never been given the luxury to know.

Some called him mad. Others called him just.

Davos called it necessary.

Davos had been watching from the moment she entered the cellar. He always watched first. It was a habit, an instinct, and one of the reasons he was still breathing after all these years. Davos heard her before he saw her. A sharp yelp, the clatter of shoes against stone—rookie mistakes, but forgivable. He allowed himself a brief, private smirk in the dark. Gevii. She was better than this.

He had seen many men and women die with less reaction than she gave to a rodent brushing her foot. He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he stepped soundlessly from the shadows as she fumbled with the flint, the small spark catching in her shaking hands. In one swift motion, he caught her by the wrist and pulled her into an alcove, shrouding them both in darkness. She tensed against him, her breath coming sharp and quick, but he felt the moment she recognized him. She stilled.

“Gevii,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears alone. He never called her Serenei. She might wear the name like a mask, but he had known the face beneath it for too long to be fooled.

He let go of her wrist. His touch was rare, calculated, always a necessity rather than a habit. He was not one for reassurances or comforts, but he gave her the space to regain herself. The flint had gone out in the scuffle. Good. He had no desire to be seen.

“I read your letter.” His voice was quiet, the kind of hush that required listening. “You have my thanks, as always. My eagles serve me well.”

Davos did not waste words, nor did he flatter. A thank you from him was rare, given only when earned. He let the silence settle between them, letting her absorb it, letting her measure what it meant.

Then, as if asking about the weather, he said, “Do you need to leave the lions?”

No reaction, not immediately. But he was watching, always watching. The shift in her breathing, the tension in her shoulders. Serenei was bracing.

“I’ve heard whispers,” he continued, voice even, unreadable. “Things I don’t think I need to repeat.”

He leaned in, not to intimidate but to remind her that there was no point in lying. Not to him. “You know better than most that I have little patience for pretty fictions.”

He let that sit between them. If she was smart—and she was—she would understand that the question was not a formality. He was giving her an out. If she was compromised, he would remove her. If she was faltering, he would end it before it became a liability. His network had no room for hesitation.

[sereneiii]

Serenei tasted blood. She bit her cheek from shock when the lord grabbed her, although she made no more sound. Only her hitching breath greeted Davos as she whirled around on her feet, stumbling first into his arms, and then reeling backwards as she shoved away from the Dornish nobleman. Serenei struggled to speak at first.

“Da-vos,” she spat, hissing his name in a harsh whisper. “Gods above, you scared me half way to hell and back. Oof, what terrible, terrible man you are, grabbing a lady. You will never have a wife at this rate. Perhaps you really are a eunuch. Perhaps you are not, and you are accustomed to grabbing ladies when you need your way with them. ” Serenei fixed her sleeves where Davos had wrenched her by the arm. She redid her buttons, frowning when she realized one had gone missing. The light from her little candle swept across the floor. Another rat scurried behind Davos's foot, but she did not see the wooden peg that tore from her shirt seam. Serenei wrinkled her nose. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms from the harrowing memory of rat bites and scratches she sustained while stowing away on the long trip to God's Grace. Her back itched. She flexed her shoulders back, trying to shrug off the cloying, phantom sensation of pestilence.

Serenei loathed rats. She despised her reintroduction to poverty and longed to retreat to the shelter that was life as Lady Perianne, her noble identity. That ruse wore itself thin. It was no longer feasible to pretend she was destined for luxury. Serenei supposed everything came to an end-- in time, she would shed life as Serenei. Would she ever be Gevii again? Serenei hoped not. Hearing her birth name made Serenei rankle. She folded her arms and tapped her foot while Davos spoke. It wounded what little pride she had that Davos had to learn her secret. She had no other way to buy his mercy-- her true nature was all she had to offer as collateral when the lord caught her stealing his sister's jewelry. She had impressed him enough with her knowledge of his motherland, his castle layout, even her assessment of his guards. But, Serenei knew the peculiar allyship of a lord and a criminal would only exist so long as she kept herself useful, as a spy, as her dornish master's spider…

“Do I need to leave the lions?” Serenei repeated, in a murmur. It helped her catch Davos's meaning. I've heard whispers.

She smirked at his insipid modesty, finding his circuitous refusal to mention sex droll in the worst way. Serenei took a step towards the young lord, rolling her hips as she came to stand against him, her nose almost brushing his chest. She craned her neck to look him in the eye, leaning one hand on her hip.

“I don't understand what you mean, M'Lord. I've yet to encounter an obstacle in Casterly Rock I can't surmount. I have even allowed others to surmount me, if the job requires it. Understand?” Serenei laughed, low and haughty. “Because you have shown me such kindness by sparing my life, I am prepared to describe each and every occasion that I've lain with Johanna Lannister. It could be quite useful for you-- she lacks a male appendage.”

Serenei's chidings dripped with spiteful malice. She did not want to rile Davos so much so that he scorned her, so she quickly smoothed her attitude and tried to quip, pleasantly, “I am alright. I don't mind it, actually. It's curious behavior, but… Well, I am learning so many new things in this new land.”

Serenei snickered through her fingers. Suddenly, her poise was girlish, deceptively quaint. She handed the candle to Davos and swung away from him on the balls of her feet, hands clasped behind her back. Even her voice changed. It was as if she waned into an entirely different person, this one defanged and declawed, like a striped rose.

“Hum, hum, let's seee, Lady Johanna has an established preference for girls, young girls. Not too young-- don't excite yourself. She is not on speaking terms with Jason Lannister-- I've no idea why, yet. They are both notorious philanderers. It is an open secret, more for Jason than Johanna-- as Johanna has far more to lose. Lady Tyshara Lannister is marrying, uhmmm, lord- looord… rod-er-rick?” Serenei paused, looking to Davos for approval. “Oh, oh yes, and… Loreon, the littlest lion, the son, is always deathly ill. He may die.”

All the while Serenei spoke, she counted on her fingers. When she reached her thumbs, she balled her fists and shoved them in her pockets. “Well, that's all. I have written reports on some of Johanna's trade agreements. I have the privilege to sleep in her chambers. I would say this is a good arrangement, and, ah, she is not bad to look at. Haven't you seen her?”

[sereneiii]

❝🄷e is my master.❞

( Closed starter with @davos-allyrion )

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Serenei gazed down at the spiraling, wine cellar steps built deep inside the Red Keep. She paused, then bent over.

Yellow hair swept over Serenei's ankles whIle she worked to unfasten her sabots. She stepped out of the shoes and clapped them once together to loosens the dirt from their stiff, leather heels before tucking them into her armpit. Serenei flexed her toes against the rim of the stone steps, feeling the pleasant chill through her hose. With one hand grazing the wall and the other holding up her generous skirts, the servant girl descended. She ignored the candlestick that sat on a bench beside the lone torch in the hallway. It illuminated only the top of the stairwell. After two turns of the staircase, she was stepping counter-clockwise in darkness, counting each step, locating them only with her toes. Serenei knew better than to bring a light into the cellar. If the Red Keep staff caught her in this place with her superior lurking nearby, it would spoil the entire mission. She would hide in the shadowy recesses made by the wine casks until any potential interlopers left. Her superior did not expect they would be disturbed here. But, Serenei had yet to see his judgement proven steadfast. She relied on her intuition, always. It was all she had.

The bottom of the stairwell was cast in impenetrable black. Serenei lifted her leg out and found the ground there was flat, finally. She wondered if she were not alone, hoped even, that there was someone waiting for her in the dark. It was exhilarating. She felt truly alive under these conditions, every sense tuned towards the dark, using her hands and feet to measure every inch of the room, feeling her heart hammer. She found an alcove by touch and decided to wait there.

Something scurred over her foot-- a rat! She yelped. Her shoes fell in her shock and clattered against the floor. She brought a flint from her pocket and lit it, trembling. She decided she had enough of mystery for today.

[exhaustcdgifs]

+91 gifs have been added to the Alicia Agenson gif pack. This brings the count to 241.

THIS COMPLETES THIS PACK.

[sereneiii]

❝🅆hy so sad, bunny? ❞

(Closed starter with @tyshara-the-lioness )

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Serenei crept towards the solar, cat-like. The floor in this area of the castle was wood lofted over the stone foundation to insulate the genteel ladies of house Lannister from the seaside chill that blew in from the frigid western ocean. Serenei stepped methodically, memorizing the places where the planks creaked. She doubted Tyshara and Johanna would hear her approach the heavy, oak door that stifled the conversation inside. But, Serenei knew the importance of tactile information-- she could memorize the layout of this place in the dark. Just at she had memorized the interior of her father’S ships. Just as she had memorized the layouts of Dornish courts and the passages inside private, Volantene vaults. Serenei did not press her ear to the door. She had absorbed enough of the conversation to discern its contents were mediocre, not the sort of intelligence that could loft her into an indispensable position. This was all half-rate, women’s issues-- gossip, just as Lady Johanna had said. Serenei walked backwards until she rounded the corner again, counting. Twenty, twenty-one… she was quick about it. Her intuition was that Tyshara or Johanna would leave soon. Serenei wasn't royalty, but she knew what it was like to disagree with a parent.The heavy door handle clicked before it opened. Serenei waited. She heard the door slam shut. Someone hurriedly approached. She stumbled around the corner, head bowed, leading with her injured hand, not so that they collided, but close enough to collision to force a conversation. Serenei straightened. She settled into that dumb, placid expression the rich expected. Lips parted, eyes wide, she stammered, “Oh-! Lady Tyshara, you're hurt…” Serenei swept into a bow where eyes fell to Tyshara's bloodstained sleeve. She clutched her own palm close to her chest. Her forefinger and palm were bound in strips of faded linen. She still had a wad of bandages in the pockets that hung over her petticoats. This was all so, what was the word…?

Fortuitous. Serenei smiled. “Will you please let me dress your wounds, Milady? Oh, please. I feel terrible. I beg you, please. Allow me to help.”

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

Tyshara barely had time to register the near-collision before Serenei stumbled back, cradling her injured hand to her chest like a wounded bird. Tyshara stilled, instinct flickering beneath the surface of her practiced composure, until Serenei’s words met her ears, breathless and pleading.

"Oh—! Lady Tyshara, you’re hurt…"

Tyshara’s gaze flicked to her sleeve, where red seeped into the fabric. The glass. The cut stung, but she had barely noticed in the wake of her mother’s parting words. Please, try harder to inspire my mercy.

Serenei was watching her, wide-eyed and deferential, playing her part well. Too well. Tyshara had seen women curtsy before her mother with the same practiced softness, had listened to them coo their sympathies while cataloging every weakness. She wants something. Everyone does.

A smarter woman might have walked away. Might have let Serenei stew in her own feigned concern, left her wondering if she had overplayed her hand. But Tyshara had never had the taste for cruelty her father did. And the girl had hurt herself, too, hadn’t she?

"I dropped a glass… nothing more than a childish impulse, I’m afraid," she said at last, her tone steady. Neither an apology nor an invitation.

Serenei said nothing, only stood there, hands trembling in a way that was just believable enough to impress Tyshara. A skilled performance. But Tyshara did not flinch from games.

She exhaled, weighing the moment. Letting Serenei tend to her wound would be an admission, a tether. And yet—what harm was there in allowing her to believe she had won this round?

“If it would set your mind at ease, you may tend to it.” She tilted her head, eyes drifting to the linen wrapped around Serenei’s fingers. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. “But only if you grant me the same courtesy. It wouldn’t do for either of us to let our wounds fester.”

A test, then. One kindness for another. And Serenei, for all her cunning, would have to play along.

[sereneiii]

Serenei beamed. She pivoted, stepping to an alcove in the hallway. This area of the castle was a covered walkway that bridged the gap in between the keep and the tower that housed the solar. The alcove was at the far end of the hall. It sported a modern rennovation-- a projection window that extended outward and over the gulf of Casterly Rock, creating a bay in the hall. Serenei thought it was a novel way to create distance between herself and Lady Johanna. She bid Tyshara to sit beside her, patting the seat. When the other complied, Serenei pulled the girl's injured palm into her lap. Her brows furrowed.

"My goodness," she said, softly. Serenei took the spool of linens from her pocket. She held a wad to the cut with one hand and wiped away some of the dried blood with the other. She gripped a fresh strip of fabric between her teeth.

When Serenei was satisfied with her work, she bit through a seam and cut the cloth to a size more manageable. She wove the bandage through Tyshara's fingers, deftly.

"What a nasty cut. Such things are not right for a Lady to acquire. I should have said something to your lady mother. It was my job to clean, not yours, no matter who broke the glass."

"I... I don't mean to dare involve myself in your affairs, Lady Tyshara, but... I have heard your mother speak very fondly of you. I didn't have a mother, so, ehm... emmm ah..." Serenei trailed off, her movements growing stiff until they stopped. "Ah, ah I mean, I mean, I doubt this will disrupt, your, relationship, right? I don't, think...?" She was working herself into an awkward frenzy, a blush creeping onto her pale features.

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

Tyshara let Serenei fuss over her hand, watching as pale fingers wove the bandage between her own. She barely felt the sting. The ache in her chest was sharper.

Her mother had spoken fondly of her. Had she? That should have meant something. It should have been enough. But praise, spoken in whispers behind her back, felt like a gift she was never meant to receive. Like a dress sewn just for her, only to be left hanging in a wardrobe, untouched. How much of it had been real, and how much had been illusion?

Would they recover from this? From the quiet disappointment that had settled over Lady Johanna’s face the moment Tyshara had said she would marry Rodrik? Could love—Rodrik’s love, her mother’s love—unravel all the careful words, the gentle pride that had never quite belonged to her, but rather to the idea of her?

Wasn’t a mother’s love supposed to be endless?

She flexed her fingers against the linen, testing the tightness of the wrap as Serenei worked. “If you don’t have a mother, then… is it only you? Do you have family here?”

She watched Serenei’s hands, the steady way she secured the cloth. “Or maybe friends?” she added. “I never see you with anyone.”

I haven’t been paying attention.

As Serenei tied off the bandage, Tyshara gently withdrew her hand from the other girl’s lap, her mind drifting to her own sisters. Too many bruised knees, too many scraped elbows. She took Serenei’s bandaged hand in hers, mirroring the careful touch she had just received. With the pad of her thumb, she brushed away the last flecks of dried blood before pressing the cloth more securely over the wound.

“I’m sorry for dropping the glass,” she murmured. Tyshara didn’t wait for a protest, only reached for the fabric and began rewrapping Serenei’s wound with the same steady certainty. Her fingers worked deftly, adjusting the bandage with practiced ease. “I’ll just tighten it so it won’t itch… It seems I can’t help being childish when it comes to my lady mother.”

[sereneiii]

“It's just me now, but you mustn't worry about that, milady. My father passed from the pox some years ago. My brother is alive, I imagine. He is a holy man on pilgrimage to the great Red Temple in Lys,” Serenei said. Her head tilted to the side, eyes closing as she gave a placid smile. “It is good that I look lonely to you. I don't socialize during my work hours. After hours, I enjoy the company of many friends.” Serenei tittered. She was surprised when Tyshara drew her hand into her lap, but her expression only faltered briefly.

Serenei watched Tyshara re-wrap her bandages. She repositioned her knees, pulling them up on the seat to face Tyshara fully. In her experience, it was rare for nobility to perform this sort of charity. how curious. Lady Johanna would return Serenei’s acts of service, but she wanted something from Serenei, always. The Lady would do anything to close the gap between them, asking to brush her hair, wash her feet, to rub her calves. It was nothing prurient…yet. But, Serenei could tell Johanna wanted her. It didn't disgust her, maybe it should have, as it would disgust her if Johanna were male. Men and women, they were all the same. What did Tyshara want, she wondered. Perhaps Tyshara was emulating her Lady Mother without considering the deeper implications.

Serenei noticed Tyshara was around her age. Perhaps it was simply that Tyshara was lonely-- she was projecting. Was that really it? “I don't believe you meant to harm me. I spend most of my time working with Lady Johanna, but I can tell you and your siblings are lovely. I enjoy the rare moments I can spend with women my age, dealing with problems-- problems…. Hum.” Serenei blinked, heavily. Her face fell again into the innocent, doe-eyed expression she wore when fighting through fogs of feigned subservience, or simpleness. “F-Forgive me,” she said. She drew her bandaged hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. “I mean no disrespect, but ah, your plight does move me, Lady Tyshara. It would inspire sympathy in any girl.” Serenei grasped Tyshara by the hand. She was laying on the act thickly, as if consumed by the fairytale dalliance. “Milady, please let me know if I can help you.”

[sereneiii]

❝🅆hy so sad, bunny? ❞

(Closed starter with @tyshara-the-lioness )

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Serenei crept towards the solar, cat-like. The floor in this area of the castle was wood lofted over the stone foundation to insulate the genteel ladies of house Lannister from the seaside chill that blew in from the frigid western ocean. Serenei stepped methodically, memorizing the places where the planks creaked. She doubted Tyshara and Johanna would hear her approach the heavy, oak door that stifled the conversation inside. But, Serenei knew the importance of tactile information-- she could memorize the layout of this place in the dark. Just at she had memorized the interior of her father’S ships. Just as she had memorized the layouts of Dornish courts and the passages inside private, Volantene vaults. Serenei did not press her ear to the door. She had absorbed enough of the conversation to discern its contents were mediocre, not the sort of intelligence that could loft her into an indispensable position. This was all half-rate, women’s issues-- gossip, just as Lady Johanna had said. Serenei walked backwards until she rounded the corner again, counting. Twenty, twenty-one… she was quick about it. Her intuition was that Tyshara or Johanna would leave soon. Serenei wasn't royalty, but she knew what it was like to disagree with a parent.The heavy door handle clicked before it opened. Serenei waited. She heard the door slam shut. Someone hurriedly approached. She stumbled around the corner, head bowed, leading with her injured hand, not so that they collided, but close enough to collision to force a conversation. Serenei straightened. She settled into that dumb, placid expression the rich expected. Lips parted, eyes wide, she stammered, “Oh-! Lady Tyshara, you're hurt…” Serenei swept into a bow where eyes fell to Tyshara's bloodstained sleeve. She clutched her own palm close to her chest. Her forefinger and palm were bound in strips of faded linen. She still had a wad of bandages in the pockets that hung over her petticoats. This was all so, what was the word…?

Fortuitous. Serenei smiled. “Will you please let me dress your wounds, Milady? Oh, please. I feel terrible. I beg you, please. Allow me to help.”

[the-fair-lady-of-fair-isle]

Tyshara barely had time to register the near-collision before Serenei stumbled back, cradling her injured hand to her chest like a wounded bird. Tyshara stilled, instinct flickering beneath the surface of her practiced composure, until Serenei’s words met her ears, breathless and pleading.

"Oh—! Lady Tyshara, you’re hurt…"

Tyshara’s gaze flicked to her sleeve, where red seeped into the fabric. The glass. The cut stung, but she had barely noticed in the wake of her mother’s parting words. Please, try harder to inspire my mercy.

Serenei was watching her, wide-eyed and deferential, playing her part well. Too well. Tyshara had seen women curtsy before her mother with the same practiced softness, had listened to them coo their sympathies while cataloging every weakness. She wants something. Everyone does.

A smarter woman might have walked away. Might have let Serenei stew in her own feigned concern, left her wondering if she had overplayed her hand. But Tyshara had never had the taste for cruelty her father did. And the girl had hurt herself, too, hadn’t she?

"I dropped a glass… nothing more than a childish impulse, I’m afraid," she said at last, her tone steady. Neither an apology nor an invitation.

Serenei said nothing, only stood there, hands trembling in a way that was just believable enough to impress Tyshara. A skilled performance. But Tyshara did not flinch from games.

She exhaled, weighing the moment. Letting Serenei tend to her wound would be an admission, a tether. And yet—what harm was there in allowing her to believe she had won this round?

“If it would set your mind at ease, you may tend to it.” She tilted her head, eyes drifting to the linen wrapped around Serenei’s fingers. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. “But only if you grant me the same courtesy. It wouldn’t do for either of us to let our wounds fester.”

A test, then. One kindness for another. And Serenei, for all her cunning, would have to play along.

[sereneiii]

Serenei beamed. She pivoted, stepping to an alcove in the hallway. This area of the castle was a covered walkway that bridged the gap in between the keep and the tower that housed the solar. The alcove was at the far end of the hall. It sported a modern rennovation-- a projection window that extended outward and over the gulf of Casterly Rock, creating a bay in the hall. Serenei thought it was a novel way to create distance between herself and Lady Johanna. She bid Tyshara to sit beside her, patting the seat. When the other complied, Serenei pulled the girl's injured palm into her lap. Her brows furrowed.

"My goodness," she said, softly. Serenei took the spool of linens from her pocket. She held a wad to the cut with one hand and wiped away some of the dried blood with the other. She gripped a fresh strip of fabric between her teeth.

When Serenei was satisfied with her work, she bit through a seam and cut the cloth to a size more manageable. She wove the bandage through Tyshara's fingers, deftly.

"What a nasty cut. Such things are not right for a Lady to acquire. I should have said something to your lady mother. It was my job to clean, not yours, no matter who broke the glass."

"I... I don't mean to dare involve myself in your affairs, Lady Tyshara, but... I have heard your mother speak very fondly of you. I didn't have a mother, so, ehm... emmm ah..." Serenei trailed off, her movements growing stiff until they stopped. "Ah, ah I mean, I mean, I doubt this will disrupt, your, relationship, right? I don't, think...?" She was working herself into an awkward frenzy, a blush creeping onto her pale features.

[sereneiii]

❝🅆hy so sad, bunny? ❞

(Closed starter with @tyshara-the-lioness )

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

Serenei crept towards the solar, cat-like. The floor in this area of the castle was wood lofted over the stone foundation to insulate the genteel ladies of house Lannister from the seaside chill that blew in from the frigid western ocean. Serenei stepped methodically, memorizing the places where the planks creaked. She doubted Tyshara and Johanna would hear her approach the heavy, oak door that stifled the conversation inside. But, Serenei knew the importance of tactile information-- she could memorize the layout of this place in the dark. Just at she had memorized the interior of her father’S ships. Just as she had memorized the layouts of Dornish courts and the passages inside private, Volantene vaults. Serenei did not press her ear to the door. She had absorbed enough of the conversation to discern its contents were mediocre, not the sort of intelligence that could loft her into an indispensable position. This was all half-rate, women’s issues-- gossip, just as Lady Johanna had said. Serenei walked backwards until she rounded the corner again, counting. Twenty, twenty-one… she was quick about it. Her intuition was that Tyshara or Johanna would leave soon. Serenei wasn't royalty, but she knew what it was like to disagree with a parent.The heavy door handle clicked before it opened. Serenei waited. She heard the door slam shut. Someone hurriedly approached. She stumbled around the corner, head bowed, leading with her injured hand, not so that they collided, but close enough to collision to force a conversation. Serenei straightened. She settled into that dumb, placid expression the rich expected. Lips parted, eyes wide, she stammered, “Oh-! Lady Tyshara, you're hurt…” Serenei swept into a bow where eyes fell to Tyshara's bloodstained sleeve. She clutched her own palm close to her chest. Her forefinger and palm were bound in strips of faded linen. She still had a wad of bandages in the pockets that hung over her petticoats. This was all so, what was the word…?

Fortuitous. Serenei smiled. “Will you please let me dress your wounds, Milady? Oh, please. I feel terrible. I beg you, please. Allow me to help.”

[danaina]

cochlea https://society6.com/product/cochlea1570876_print

[parantica]

[parantica]

[parantica]