The room smells of spice and bitter chemicals. She wrinkles her nose and weaves her way between soft cushions, piles of silks, here a chair and there a table. There is too much color and everything has a different texture, a different smell. It makes her cautious, a little nervous. But she sees him, and a weight of familiarity settles in her stomach – this is the face that she knows. He sits in the bath and steam rises around him, blurring his features but there – a streak of crimson, a slash of white.
"A girl lacks courtesy. A man is bathing." Through the steam he flashes a smile.
"A man sent for a girl," she replies methodically, "and a girl promised to obey."
"Just so." The water barely moves as he climbs out of the bath, and as he steps out of the steam she sees scars in strange places, places that girls never see but women do. She does not look away, but her blouse feels tighter, weighed down by steam. The water slides down his pale skin and she takes a step back. The smile flashes brighter.
"A girl has grown. How old are you now, lovely girl?"
"Seven-and-ten," she says blankly, staring at the muscled chest. When they had been together at Harrenhal, she had only seen him once like this. He had been bathing, surrounded by women who brushed his hair and scrubbed the dirt and darkness from him. She remembered the curve of his throat and how there was a notch at the base that was softer than cheese and could fit a dagger's blade perfectly.
"A man sent for you seven days past. Did the lovely girl get lost?"
She bristles. Cats never get lost. If they can't go back, they go out another way.
"I didn't know you were in King's Landing." That wasn't true. The brothel was well furnished and filled with women of all shapes and colors and interests. It was popular for its lavishness and variety. She had seen the flickering torches and heard the squealing laughter of women from where she had holed up in Flea Bottom. But it was nestled in an alley too close to Baelor's Sept, and there was a ghost on the steps that called out to her at night. She had waited until daylight to come to him.
He smiles and reaches for a sheet of silk. There is a stillness to the air, like the pause before an attack; her skin prickles and she shifts her weight.
"A man is cold. Will a lovely girl keep him warm?"
She swallows the lump in her throat and takes the silk. She wraps it around his waist, careful not to touch him. The heat that rises off him makes her dizzy. She feels blurred, as if the steam has seeped inside of her, and she wants to bite at his flesh and rake her nails against his jaw. Three times he had called on her – a mockery of the three debts he owed – and three times she had been sent to bless a man with the gift of death. But years had passed between the third raven and this new one, this fat raven with only a slip of paper reading "A girl promised to obey," and she had felt something quicken in her gut that wasn't fear or anticipation or joy.
It had felt like longing.
She had left Winterfell before she had even known where to go. She hadn't spoken to Sansa or Bran but had saddled a horse and left. Rickon had seen her leave, and with eyes that never closed or blinked or looked away, he had known, and so she had said nothing to him as well. When she had reached an inn not far from Harrenhal, she had found Hot Pie, and after a round of mead and a clipped conversation (the more she rode the faster she'd get to him), she had decided to let her old friend tag along on her "adventure."
What else could she have called it?
And now she was here, and he had called, but this was the fourth time, and he had promised they were done the moment she had heard the last man's last breath. She doesn't understand why she's here and now the steam has made her lose herself. She would blame it on the steam for now.
She steps back and folds her arms across her chest. "What did you want me for?" She tries not to turn the words into a snarl.
He smiles. "A man is lonely. A girl looks lonely, too."
"I'm not lonely!" she protests. "Hot Pie came with me. I left him at the inn but…" The look on his face makes her realize that that hadn't been what he had meant.
He steps closer and without thinking, she swipes at him. Her nails catch the skin and she can almost feel it tearing, and then drops of blood burst through and trickle out, mixing with the water, swirling down his clenched stomach. Her breathing hitches. She puts her fingers to her lips and tastes metal and perfume and him. He tastes alive, and she's alive because of him, because of what he taught her. Her head clouds with steam and his eyes anchor her to the spot.
"A girl does not have to be lonely. Not tonight." His voice is as soft as the silk and he presses in close.
"Why did you call me here? What do you want?" She swats at him again, but only grazes the surface.
"A man wants many things, lovely girl, but he can wait to ask them of you. A girl is impatient."
"A man is confusing. You said there were only three. You only needed me three times."
"Perhaps a man needs you more."
He holds the heavy braid of her hair in his hand and tugs it timidly, watching her eyes. She feels his blood drying in the corners of her mouth and suddenly, quietly, calm as still water, she scratches him again. Her claws mark his face and blood trickles out, runs down his cheeks and into his smile, and he puts his hand around her throat. His thumb rubs her flesh, the soft spot fit for a blade, rubs the skin raw, and she feels wild and nervous but alive and she remembers her first kill, and how it had come to this, and how he had turned her into this creature.
"A girl promised to obey," he says, pulling her to him by her neck. He squeezes it gently and she sighs, almost happily, and licks at his face with her rough tongue. She knows that he could snap her neck or caress it, and either would suffice.
"A girl will obey," she says, then drags her teeth against his jaw.