Bloom had the white house ready.
The key hung on the third nail over the frame.
Lyonel took it down.
Copper.
Cold in the palm.
Dark downstairs.
A line of candle under the bedroom door on the second floor.
The wooden stair complained all the way up.
The door was not shut.
He knocked.
A chair jumped inside.
Then Shay’s raw voice.
“Who.”
“Lyonel.”
Three seconds.
“…It isn’t locked.”
He pushed it.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Hair wet on her shoulders.
Clean white linen.
The bruise still there, but the dirt was gone and the face under it was small and fine.
The stubborn heat in the black eyes had more light than it had on the brothel bench.
Rope marks on her ankles.
Red.
He saw them and did not stay on them.
“You eat?”
She shook her head.
“Bloom—”
From downstairs: “Bread and broth in the kitchen.
Heating now.”
Lyonel pulled a chair across from the bed and sat.
His feet missed the floor.
She looked at the feet for two seconds.
Her mouth moved.
“If you want to laugh, laugh,” he said.
“I wasn’t—”
“I’m this short.
A laugh isn’t a hanging.”
She turned her face away.
One shoulder jumped.
Pots downstairs.
Bloom: “My lord.
Onion in the broth?”
“Yes.”
“How much.”
“All of it.”
Her mouth bent.
Small.
The pane caught it.
[System]
Target state change.
Fear: 9 → 6
Trust: 1 → 8
Lyonel sat back, hands on his knees.
“Shay.”
She looked at him.
“I paid five hundred gold dragons for you.
Not five hundred coppers.
Five hundred dragons.
Ten years of tax on a West village.”
Her lashes moved.
“I didn’t buy you to take to bed.”
The heat in the black eyes went from watchful to blank.
“I bought the mouth.”
“…The mouth.”
You ask for me.
What each ship in this port is carrying.
Which merchant eats with whom.
What word a lord’s rider brings.
You keep it and you give it to me.”
“Can you do that.”
She opened her mouth.
Still raw.
“I… I can’t write.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“I can barely make my own name—”
“I said I’ll teach.”
He stood and went to the window.
His back to her.
Lamps on the water, small and scattered.
“I couldn’t do a thing either, once.”
“Who comes out knowing.”
“My father had a mine at fifteen.
I was fifteen in a brothel with a board in my head.”
“You’re already ahead of me.
Fifteen in a house like that and you still bit a man.”
She stared.
Then she laughed.
Out loud this time.
Thin.
Glass rolling in sand.
[System]
Harem No.
1 — Shay
Bond built.
Complete: 100%
Reward: Blue trait draw in progress—
The card turned.
Blue filled the eye.
[System]
Blue trait acquired: Faithful
Direct men: loyalty +20%.
Chance they turn: −40%.
Morale holds above the line.
Passive.
Lyonel read the card and lifted a brow.
Looked back.
She was still smiling.
The bruise pulled.
She covered that side of her face and did not put the smile away.
“My lord—broth’s done.” Bloom, downstairs.
“Bring it.”
Lyonel dragged the chair back to the bed and sat on the floor against the wall, level with her on the mattress.
Bloom came with two bowls, set them on the stand, and left.
The door shut after him.
Shay took a bowl.
Hissed at the heat.
Did not put it down.
Small sips.
Lyonel held his and looked at the ceiling.
“This house is yours.”
“Alone.”
“Two men on the door at night.”
“And you.”
He turned his head.
“I sleep at the Rock.”
Her hands tightened on the bowl.
The surface moved twice.
“When I come.”
“If you don’t.”
He drank, set the bowl down.
“You work for me.
You are not in a cage.
I have work, I send a rider.
You have work—”
The copper key came out of his coat and went on the stand.
“You have work, you ride to Casterly Rock and tell the gate you want Lyonel Lannister.
Anyone stops you, you say you are mine.”
She looked at the key.
Then at him.
Orange between them.
“You aren’t afraid I’ll run,” she said.
“Where.”
“…I don’t know.”
“Back to the Sail?”
She shook her head.
“Back to the village you had?”
Silence.
“Then you stay here.”
“Here there is broth.
Out there they hit you.
Run that count yourself.”
She looked at the onion rings in the bowl and gave him a small nod.
He stood and slapped the dust off his breeches.
“I’m going.
Paper and ink in the chest by the wall.
Bloom brings a letter book in the morning.”
“I check in three days.”
“You can’t make the letters, I cut the broth.”
At the door he put a hand on the frame and looked back.
She held the bowl.
The black eyes in the candle were wet stone.
“Lyonel,” she said.
“Mm.”
“…Thanks.”
He did not turn.
A wave.
Down the stair.
Hooves at the front.
Near, then gone, into the port wind.
Shay looked at the broth, put an onion in her mouth, chewed, and bent her face to the rim of the bowl.
Her shoulders moved.
The moon was round.
Tide on the stone quay.
A long wash.
Far out, the pane gave him one more line.
[System]
Harem No.
1 — Shay
Safehouse set.
Line not yet open.
Lannisport intelligence net: 15%
He checked the horse at the fork of the port road and looked back.
Second floor.
The candle still going.
He showed the teeth and put the horse toward the Rock.
Wind on the road.
Night Sight made the dark clean.
Three days ahead.
Silverhill was still waiting.