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Chapter Text

The plaster walls of the brothel fell away and all Fia could see was the dying woman lying on the bed in front of her. Foam dribbled out of the corners of her mother’s cracked lips, trickling down her chin in the shape of a fish hook. Death was reeling her in. Only moments before, she’d been coughing up clear phlegm, but now had grown deathly quiet. Fia instinctively reached out to take her mother’s hand in her own, rubbing life into those stone-cold fingers; and they twitched, almost curling into her touch. She hoped that meant her mother could sense her presence, so she tightened her grip… but those fragile fingers soon fell limp.

Her mother had laid down to rest at midday, but had not returned for her turn with the patrons in the evening. Though Fia tried, she could not wake her at all. She’d heard a maester speak of this sleeping sickness once when her father was still a man who commanded respect—before his fall from grace sent them to this wretched place. Comatose, they'd called it then. But this sickness had fallen on her mother so quickly, and without warning. And what of the coughing and the foam? That did not resemble the ailment described by the maester. What could this mean for her chances of recovery?

The loosely draped curtain which divided her mother’s room from the rest of the brothel peeled open to reveal Danara, the closest thing to a landlady this cesspool had. Bearing a bastard for nearly every lord that had frequented her brothel, the woman’s roster of whores had grown until almost every woman under her roof was her own flesh and blood. Her boys, the few she had, kept the establishment as clean as one could in Flea Bottom, and well-stocked with ale. The smallfolk had styled her the Whore Mother. They could insult her all they liked, but that would not change the fact that her brothel brought in bounties of coin as a direct result of its diversity, allowing her to cater to all realms of taste. She kept each of her children on a tight leash; too bad all her other allegiances were kept as loose as her cunt.

“Oh, Fia,” Danara blurted, stealing over to the bedside. “How long has she been like this?”

“I don’t know. I only just found her,” Fia admitted, teary eyed. She let go of her mother’s hand, and made room on the bed for Danara to examine her. Her mother could not die. Danara would have some old maid’s remedy, some salve, some balm, some something hidden up her sleeve.

Four small hands peeled back the curtain, and the twins Ada and Dana poked their heads into the room. Of all the times that the girls could have chosen to take an interest in Fia, of course it would be when her life was falling apart. Their eyes scoured the room, searching for the reason behind their mother’s disappearance from the hearth, searching to see if Fia was in trouble.

“Off with you!” Danara shouted, waving them out.

Unlike Danara’s daughters, Fia had been lucky enough not to have lost her maidenhead, if only as a result of her own mother’s sacrifices. Selyne had at one time been a lady after all, and she oft said she would sooner die than see her daughter sullied by some drunken fool. The other girls had loathed Fia for this, this privilege. Thus any chance they saw to bully her, they took. Now was no different. After catching a glimpse of her mother, the twins twisted their mouths in disgust, and Fia could only dream what taunts lied in store for her.

“I’m not wont to ask you again, girls,” Danara warned, and they did as they were told, retreating back behind the curtain. Fia knew they would not keep their mouths shut for long.

Danara proceeded to examine Selyne with caution, gently brushing back the black hair which fell upon her breast and pressing an ear to her glistening chest, slick with sweat. When next she lifted her head, she looked at Fia.

“No,” Fia whispered, feeling sick, itchy.

“There’s barely a beat, dear,” Danara said. “She’ll not last long.”

Fia could not believe it, she refused to believe it. Her mother was fine, if not a bit tired before she’d laid down to rest. What could have gone wrong in such a short time? Why was this happening? Why wasn’t Danara helping her? She felt the tears run down her cheeks, felt time slipping away from her.

The curtain whipped open once again and Danara swung on them, screaming for them to leave.

“Danara.”

Fia’s father stood tall in the doorway, stinking of ale, his clothes stained with pig’s blood. Always in time for the slaughter, wasn’t he? But Fia had never heard her father’s voice sound so soft before… It made her hurt. Still, fearful of his next words, his next move, she attempted to ignore him and returned to her mother’s side, taking one of those limp hands and touching it to her cheek. Don’t let it be true, she thought. Come back to me.

Aendys never so much as glanced at his lady wife who lay dying on the bed before addressing the other woman, “Selyne will die?”

Danara nodded, chewing at her lips.

That was answer enough. He turned to Fia, her eyes shifting carefully between the adults, his own eyes cold and calculating beneath his drunken stupor. They roamed her body, and she shifted, twisting to hide herself as he assessed her. “You’ve grown,” he noted. “Has she bled yet?”

Danara nodded.

And Fia shivered, fidgeting with a piece of lace trim that scratched at her collarbone. She winced when she accidentally pierced her skin, a speck of blood staining the color red. Her father sniffed, scrunching up his nose. “I can hardly be expected to care for her on my own… How much will you take her for?”

No.

Years ago, her father had promised that he would regain his titles, his lordship, his knighthood, or at the very least take her and her mother far away from the swirling depths of Flea Bottom. But Aendys made a lot of promises, and not many of them did he even attempt to keep. He had swiftly sank into his cups, as he always had; had burned every bridge he had, if any had been built; and had left Selyne and Fia to survive on their own. He was weak. Selfish. A man unfit for fatherhood.

And yet, she had always hoped that he would prove her wrong—that he would return to her and slay the dragons of her waking nightmares—and she had clung to that hope for all these years. Those white knights she’d heard of in her septa’s stories… Why could one not be her father, too? But now he would abandon her, perhaps forever, throwing those hopefully long-held words onto his bonfire of broken promises.

“Oh, Endy… you haven’t changed. And here I hoped you’d finally come to apologize to your lady wife. It can’t be helped. You’re averse to it: change. I so wish it wouldn’t have come to this.” Danara was speaking as though the deal were already settled.

“Does that mean I have to…” Fia dared not even finish the thought, scratching at her collarbone. Her desperate eye’s searched Danara’s face for a hint of hope. She found nothing except pity. “She’s not even… She could get better. You have to give her a chance to get better. Please, Danara. Father. Don’t do this. I’m- I’m only six and ten. It’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s not fair,” Danara told her. “You lost your manse and your father and soon your mother, too. All the Seven Hells are working against you, girl. But let me let you in on a secret.” Fia perked up at this, swiping the tears from her eyes as Danara leaned in to whisper, “You’ll be the first of my daughters to say they have two mothers, and you’ll be the fairest of them all because you did not come from me.”

She grabbed Fia’s face with firm, yet soothing hands like a hot stone driven through the skin for healing. Only it was not soothing, nor was it healing, and Fia only felt numb. She stilled, frozen, trembling—a butterfly caught in a jar, wings fluttering wildly and yet barely moving an inch. And she would stay this butterfly forever, battered about by her own raging wings, never shattering the glass.

Fia could do nothing but stare as her father sold her off, as he took those coppers one by one, stuffing them deep into his pocket.

A death rattle shook the room—that final rumble, that final breath, that final curse that fell upon the world. Fia fell, too, off the bed, onto the cold stone floor. Her mother was dead.

She did not know what was said, or for how long, but soon black hair lifted from the pillow, a reflection of her own. Aendys hefted her mother off the bed, her hair draping over his bare, strong arms. Did he carry her like that on their wedding day? That must have been so long ago. Fear swept through Fia then, deeper than her hurting. For as her father left, he took with him her mother’s rings, her dress, her necklace; her sun-loved skin, her amber eyes, her laugh… But worst of all, he took her memories. Her memories. His memories. Ones he had of her. Ones he’d never shared. Ones Fia would always wish he had.

He left without another word.

“And now that the man is gone, let us ladies speak.” Fia hadn’t noticed when Danara wrapped an arm around her shoulder or even moved her to sit on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry… I am. Shit happens and it happens when you’re not looking, so you’d better start paying attention... I see how you glare at me, as though I’m some cold-hearted witch, but I’m not. I’m trying to teach you that this is your life now. This is what your life looks like. Living in Flea Bottom, losing your mother, losing more than that. The faster you learn that, the longer you might live… Now, regarding the deal with your father, I bought you for a pretty penny, so you owe me one.”

Owed her one?

Danara laughed heartily. “But I mostly spent so much to keep him out of our hair… Look, I will not ask you to lose your maidenhead here if you do not desire to. Selyne did enough for me in her time that I needn’t disrespect her in such a fashion.”

Fia looked at her, capturing hope and locking it in her chest. “Truly?”

“‘Course,” Danara said, though her head hung low. “‘Course… But as awful as he is, your father is right… You’re nearly a woman grown, Fia. And in truth, I’ve had offers for your maidenhead since you arrived at my brothel. Good ones. So, whenever you’re ready…” She paused when Fia tensed. “But we can talk about that on the morrow. Get some rest, girl.”

With that, Danara gave Fia one last squeeze before leaving her to her grief. Alone, Fia crumpled under the weight of it all. She cried so hard her face hurt, and her bones turned to twigs that snapped under her weight as she fell across her mother’s bed. The sheets did not smell like her, like flowers and joy and hope, but of sweat and pain and ruin. Danara’s last offer creeped into her mind, weeds overgrowing. How long was she to help the boys clean? She was nearing the end of maidenhood. If she were still a lady, she’d be expected to be wed soon or at least made a lady-in-waiting. How long would she be able to escape men’s desires by allotting a pinch or a squeeze? Her mother had tried to protect her and she knew Danara would, too, but were she alone…

Fia was never strong. Were she alone with a drunken fool, she’d be taken along with her dignity. The wood ceiling bent and bowed with the weight of the strangers upstairs, and moans and laughs and singing spilled back into her purview. She lay there, listening, imagining what her life could have been or should have been or would turn into. When suddenly the brothel grew silent, she took it as a sign that she needed to listen to Danara.

She closed her eyes and fell victim to sweet slumber.

“You’re going to love her. She’s a real hidden gem.” Faint voices drew nearer, muffled by the minstrel’s song, stirring Fia in her sleep. But she ignored it, burying her face deeper into her mother’s pillow. Sharp laughter startled her awake. “Here we are. Enjoy, my prince.”

The curtain was pulled back and Fia drowsily sat up in bed, streaks of dried tears staining her cheeks. Tanara, the eldest daughter of Danara, and Fia’s most loyal antagonizer, stood in the doorway and her face said it all; that smug grin, those flaring nostrils. This was revenge. Fia sobered up quickly and scrambled to the head of the bed. Where was her mother? Where was Danara? And who was that?

“My prince?” The words tumbled out of Fia’s trembling mouth.

Prince Aegon had never visited their brothel before. But now their luck had run out, it seemed, for all the whores of Flea Bottom had heard of the young prince and his depraved requests after he was dissuaded from sating his desires at the finer establishments of King’s Landing. Apparently, he’d now been encouraged to sate them here. Common people were cattle to men like him… Flea Bottomers were the cattle’s shit. Their pain was of no consequence.

Fia choked on fresh tears, but her body went numb with a regretful acceptance. Refusing the prince meant death. This was the night she would lose her maidenhead. She pulled her knees up to her chest.

“The prince has just returned from a funeral on Driftmark, Fia,” Tanara mouthed, her words hidden from the prince by the curtain. “I thought the two of you might have something in common.”

“Tanara, I beg you-”

Prince Aegon joined her in the doorway.

The first thing Fia noticed was his silver hair which fell flat in the ill lit room, the candlelight doing it no favors, and she wondered why anyone would be so impressed by it. He was shorter than the girls had said as well, but she should have expected that, him being only six and ten like herself. His shoulders were drawn in, his nose pointed toward the floor, hiding those eyes she’d heard about… He wasn’t anything like Fia had imagined. In truth, he looked sad. But mayhaps she was only seeing a reflection of herself, hoping that the rumors about him were untrue.

When he lifted his eyes, she found her answer; and she dare not speak it, she dare not breathe.

“She’s a sad thing, is she not?” Aegon laughed and his body fed on the insult, his shoulders pulling taught, his chin rising with his eyes. “Pray tell, is it true? Are you a hidden gem?”

Fia mindlessly scratched at her collarbone and kept her head down, fresh hot tears dripping onto her dress. She was exactly what he had come for—a frail thing, a timid thing, a butterfly in a jar.

“I don’t know, my prince,” Fia admitted, her voice hoarse. That hot and heavy stare of his pushed her deeper into the headboard, and she returned his look, her eyes filled in black with sorrow. “Though I could be. If it please you, my prince.”

This pulled a string in the prince’s black heart and he dropped the curtain behind him, obscuring Tanara whose hair had just been pulled by a raving Danara. Even the Whore Mother could not save Fia now. Aegon moved in, stalking round the bed like a carnivorous beast, salivating, starving—and his beast was a dragon. She would never escape his fires. He settled on the bed beside her, his fingers coming up to trace those running rivers of grief which ran down her cheeks; his own face slack, weighed down by his lust. Satisfied with her sadness, her fear, his fingers moved and gently pinched her scratching hand. With care, he lifted it so that it hung like a branch above her head and then he leaned into her collarbone, drawing a line with his tongue where she’d broken skin. He pulled back when she whimpered. He was so gentle. But that was the worst part, how gentle he was, for she knew that this was only the beginning and that soon all of the girl she knew would be burned away by his biting flames.

What she’d seen in his eyes, she now saw only inches from her own. It was the sea under a moonless sky, filled in black with contempt. They were the eyes of a boy with no autonomy, much like herself. She knew then that she could understand him, and that scared her. She could not hate something that she understood.

Aegon craved the reflection of the glass jar, his own dragon too big to fit within its confines. He would do anything to shatter the glass. To make her hurt like him.

Leaning in close so that only she may hear, he whispered, “It would please me.”

She shivered under the heat of his unwanted touch.

Fia waited until the footsteps faded and then spat a mouthful of lukewarm seed onto the stonework. After a couple swishes, it usually lost the bitterness and salty aftertaste, but she couldn’t be bothered to swallow anymore little lords today. She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow and stood shakily, her knees red as wine from kneeling on cracked stone. Soft woolen smallclothes lay sprawled across her bed, the fairest set of dress she owned. She chuckled, noticing the single copper coin that kissed her pillow. “Bastard.”

Fia snatched the coin up and fell backward onto the flattened bed. She was as naked as her nameday, raking her fingers through her long black hair, splaying it out on the mattress. The ceiling hung, sinking further with every passing year. How long had it been? She blew cool air through pursed lips, remembering. Six years. Six years since she began whoring herself out of her mother's old pleasure room. It was not what Selyne had wanted for her, but Selyne was dead. Her wantings did not matter. Fia grimaced. “Sorry, mother.”

The curtain peeled open and Tanara peeked in. “So, how did you fare with the good lord?”

Fia did not so much as flinch, and flaunted the copper, pinched between two fingers. She was met with a wince. “Hadn’t he spent the last day in your company?”

"I am reluctant to provide the answer to that question," Fia groaned. "For it is far worse than that."

Tanara bit back a laugh. “Well, good riddance. Surely it's not a testament to your skills... or lack thereof. I’d say he can keep his copper, but I think you need it.”

“You wound me.”

“I try.” Tanara shrugged, dropping the curtain, and leaving Fia to her business.

“I know you do,” Fia said to herself, pulling on a loose shift and then her dress. Before leaving, she scooped up the seed with the forgotten man’s forgotten kerchief and tossed it into an empty basket. One of Danara’s boys would come by to gather her soiled laundry on the morrow. Now that her work was done, Fia was ready for a well-deserved break.

The hearth of the brothel was busier than she had expected, and she was tempted to change her plans for the evening. Her mouth watered at the prospect of coin lining her pockets and potentially filling her cup, but she had an appointment and did not intend to skip it. She made a quick stop by the kitchen and then when she couldn’t find Danara, eagerly hurried to the backdoor. She’d be glad to get away from all the noise. The incessant moaning and grunting and growling was sometimes too thick to swim through. Her ears were drowning in the song of the whores.

“Fia!” Ada’s chipper voice made Fia scowl, and she slid to a stop, looking back over her shoulder. Ada was fifteen and starting to look the part of a woman grown. She had her mother’s curves, her mother's charm, and the insolence of her elder sister; all of which contributed to her popularity with the patrons. She beckoned Fia to come closer. “My, my. Where are you off to in such haste?”

“Does it matter?” she remarked crudely. She was already late. She didn’t need further distractions, and Ada was always a distraction.

“Hm... Brynden here says he saw the Blood Wyrm flying overhead this morning, and Cassandra glanced the others, too. Apparently there's to be a discussion about the succession of some lord's fancy castle." Brynden, presumably, cupped the girl's breast, firmly squeezing, softening, squeezing. Fia's head began to ache. “So it appears that today is your lucky day: the blacks are back in King's Landing. Perhaps that prince your father loved so dearly will finally come and rescue you.”

Bitch.

Prince Daemon had his own part to play in her father's downfall, in hers. His abandoning was the catalyst to all of it... She would curse the man if she ever saw him again.

“I'm in no need of rescuing.”

Fia then left as abruptly as she’d stopped and a cool breeze greeted her in the back alley. The streets of Flea Bottom were no less loud than the brothel, but at least the sounds were less… arousing. Instead of moans, it was shouts; instead of growls, there were growls. Someone was selling wild dogs nearby by the sound of it. She meandered through the nighttime crowds, slipping easily between the masses without bringing much attention to herself. Not that that was a concern to begin with.

At last, she broke out of the bustling streets and into a secluded crisscross of back alleys. Hushed whispers filled the otherwise stale air followed by an occasional grunt or shout. Dark dealings loved dark alleys. Fia crouched down under a rare hanging lantern, peering into near darkness. The distance between lanterns grew down here, causing rotating intervals of light made by the lanterns and darkness made by the night. Beneath the lantern light, Fia withdrew a piece of fish she’d stolen from the kitchen and waved it about, low to the dirt. She waved it once, twice, added a little tsk tsk of her tongue, waved it a third time, but nothing. No golden eyes flashed deep in the darkness. No black paws crept into her halo of light.

Fia’s heart sank when she heard a frightened yowl.

It only took Fia a few long, hurried strides to reach the cage that held her companion captive; the black kitten yowled at her through its wrought-iron bars. His voice was ragged, frayed, his golden eyes turned white in the glaring moonlight. She made quick work of prying the enclosing latch open, throwing off the lid, and rescuing him. The kitten greeted her with a flurry of scratches. Warmth and wetness greeted her shaking arms.

But it wasn’t her blood that was dripping onto the lane.

The kitten’s tail was completely gone, hacked off by a cruel contraption built into the mysterious cage. A cage that looked nothing like the ones she’d seen for catching rats or other pestilent beasts. She clutched the kitten to her chest like a spindle under a spinster’s arm, and pools of blood began to settle in the crook of her elbow.

“Who did this to you?” she asked timorously, gently combing his fur with her fingers despite his constant scratching. He quieted then, became almost docile, almost nonchalant. The blood kept spilling. “How are you so calm?”

“He’s a wild animal, dear. He’s probably seen worse,” a stranger’s voice lulled in the dark. Fia pulled the kitten closer, earning a weak yowl when she squeezed too tightly. A cane reached into the halo, its master following with a heavy, dragging step.

Fia had an eerie feeling she was about to be looking at worse.

“May I?” As he stepped further into the light, Fia caught a glimpse of the stranger’s fine features, an amalgamation of inconsistencies. His jaw which was sharp was too sharp, same for his nose which was too round. But there was something familiar in the indecisiveness. Fia saw the same in her own looking glass. As he inched closer, Fia thought she recognized him, but that rarely meant anything good. She had a habit of making poor, hasty decisions with men whilst drunk and forgot both the decision and man just as quickly. Whoever he was, she knew she best be on her guard.

Her suspicions were confirmed when he looked disappointed by her indifference to him. Still, he extended his hand, a silent repeat of his question. Fia nodded hesitantly. She followed his every move closely as though he would suddenly sprout wings and whisk her away if she so much as blinked. Close enough to touch, he lifted the kitten by its hind legs and examined the bloodied mess where a tail should be. Thick clumps of tissue and blood splattered on Fia’s arm as the stranger moved the kitten this way and that. She met the stranger’s eyes with intense fragility and suspicion.

“Is this your doing?” she asked and the man’s eyes went wide with amusement.

“No,” he said, smiling with closed lips. His eager eyes returned to their scrutiny.

As unnerving as his smile was, he seemed to be truly interested in healing the kitten; though Fia had little faith that this man genuinely appreciated it. That smile, that glistening eye, that determined, excited look absent of compassion. It seemed to Fia that the man thought the kitten was more like a puzzle that needed solving than an animal in need of saving. As to whether he was the culprit or not for the creation of this puzzle was still up in the air. His involuntary chuckle revealed as much.

“Can you help him?” Fia asked.

“Making demands already?” the man quipped, his eyes flicking up to hers for a moment before she scoffed in his too-close-for-comfort face. His playful tone gave her the sense that he’d asked her that question before, but she couldn’t remember when. Heat rose in her cheeks. What drunken circumstance could prompt such a question? She could only think of so many savory situations before the long list of unsavory ones began. Deflect. Deflect.

“It’s not a demand, it’s a question,” she snapped. “Can you help?”

The man cocked a brow and nodded respectfully. This subtle movement disrupted his finely combed hair and Fia smelled the sparks of nostalgia in its wake. He pulled a handkerchief out of his tunic and pressed it to the kitten who squirmed and cried in Fia’s arms. “I’m no Maester, but I daresay I can try,” he said, hanging his cane on an elbow. Then he covered the kitten’s rear end and attempted to lift it into his own waiting embrace. But Fia held up a finger. She was lost in her senses, trying to place his familiar scent. That flowery fragrance was simple, soothing like an herb or evergreen. She hadn’t smelled it since she was a child. Then she remembered: she’d snuck out of her family manse to explore the gardens of the Red Keep and that’s where she found them: lavender and Larys.

Her eyes must've spoken for her for his smile grew wider, though it did not reach his eyes. The kitten passed gently from one holder to the next without either speaking a word. Purring shook the pair.

“Larys.”

“Lady Fia.”

“Making demands already… You caught me in the gardens and I swore I’d have my father run you through if you didn’t let me go.” Fia chuckled with downcast eyes. “You threatened to call on Ser Harwin instead.”

“I didn’t if you recall.”

“I do.” She hadn’t the mind to thank him at the time. Children are so self involved, they do not consider the lengths others go to to protect them. There are many people Fia would thank now if given the chance, but she settled on starting with Larys. “Thank you.”

“It was a matter of little concern.” He waved it away and she believed him. The crime of a young lady sneaking into the gardens must have paled in comparison to the goings on of the Red Keep. Larys cocked his head slightly, glancing her over. She averted her gaze, feeling naked under his scrutinizing stare. “You’ve grown since then.”

It was a simple statement of fact, but it made Fia’s stomach churn. “You’re out late, my lord. Why is that, I wonder?” she asked without realizing she’d touched a nerve as well, for under the shadow of his eyes, his jaw tensed in clear displeasure.

“I could ask you the same,” he retorted. His gaze flicked down to her dress which was fitted especially for her profession.

But Fia did not wince at his words. She may have lived by to each his own, but Lord Strong had completely deflected her simple question and had not even attempted a lie. He was accustomed to deflecting, wasn’t he?

As Fia eyes dropped to linger on the suspiciously injured kitten in his arms, Larys’ eyes lingered on her neckline where old scars peeked out underneath a screen of silk. She did not move to cover them. Rather she craned her neck toward the moon so that he might see them better.

“Bad habits,” she admitted, fingering the scars, delicately, daringly, “They’re not easily broken.”

“But you did break them,” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I started taking control in situations where I once could not,” she said.

Larys smiled. Fia did not know if this meeting was by chance or design, but she did know that she’d not been what Larys expected to find tonight. Her eyes moved between him and the kitten, fixating on one for a moment then the other, measuring their ties to one another. Whether Larys maimed the kitten or not, she decided it did not matter. She knew men like him. Men who lingered in dark alleys on even darker nights. They did not give help freely. So she could either hope that when he next came knocking, his request was a simple one, or… she could make her payment clear from the start.

“Thank you again.” She smiled sweetly, petting the kitten in his arms. Her unabashed closeness caused Larys to shift on his uneven feet. “If ever you are in need of a drink, you can find me at the Silver Inn.”

Beat to the punch, Larys laughed, his breath like honey on her face. Warm, poisoned honey. “I haven’t done anything yet, dear. You don’t even know if he’ll survive.”

“I don’t,” she agreed with a growing smile of her own. Larys had been sweet as a bee, but now came the stinger. Lucky, she’d been stung before. She grabbed his arm, staring daggers into his dark eyes. “But you can bring the kitten back to me either way.”

“The kitten? You haven’t named it?” Larys blurted.

“Oh, Lord Larys. You more than anyone should know that names hold too much power as it is.”

This time Larys shook his head and when he smiled, it met his eyes.