I smile as I hand the cardboard cup to the waiting customer. I've been practicing that smile, dutifully staring at myself in the mirror until it looks...

("...a *little* less like a rictus of terror, Stark; come on, come on, the customers don't bite. Mostly.")

Bright. Cheerful. Professional.

"One extra-large double-shot mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles," I say. The customer mutters something that could be 'thanks', practically snatching the syrupy confection - more sugar than coffee - out of my hand as she clacks away on five-inch heels, strides shortened by the tightly-fitted pencil skirt she's wearing.

Let's see. Grey skirt with matching jacket. Cream blouse, unbuttoned enough to show just a hint of cleavage, but not so much as to be unprofessional. Discreet jewellery, expertly applied make-up. And, of course, the shoes. Clearly business battle-dress. No challenge there.

Okay, what about the rest of it?

Nicotine stains on her fingers. Pale skin. A tremor to her hand, making her clumsy when she grabbed for the coffee. Eyes a little puffy and bloodshot behind the dark glasses she didn't take off when she came through the door. Attention a million miles away from here and now, and whatever she's thinking about, it's not making her happy.

I think that's enough to work with.

"Daydreaming, Sansa?"

The voice breaks into my thoughts, making me jump a little and spin round. I relax a little when I see it's just Shae. She's leaning against the counter as she neatly folds a stack of tea-towels, smiling fondly at me.

I smile back at her, genuinely this time. Shae was a real lifesaver when I started here at Hot Coffee. She really took me under her wing. I swear she must have stopped me from making at least a hundred stupid mistakes. And that was just in the first week.

"Just thinking," I say softly.

Shae's smile turns mischievous.

"Playing your game again?"

I duck my head a little, vainly trying to hide the sudden flush of embarrassment that's undoubtedly staining my cheeks.

"Maybe," I admit. (I hope she doesn't think badly of me.)

Shae chuckles. It's not a malicious sound, but I feel my shoulders tense instinctively for a moment before I force myself to relax, to stand up straight and meet her gaze.

("You're such a little mouse, Sansa. When you hunch over like that, it looks like you're about to hibernate.")

"You don't need to be embarrassed about it," Shae says, and there's a look in her eyes, like she knows exactly what was going through my head. I shrug a little awkwardly and she lays a hand on my arm in wordless comfort. It... helps. (We're still friends!) Apparently satisfied that I'm not about to melt into a small puddle of shame at her feet, she goes back to folding tea-towels. "So, what's her story?"

That's my game. I like to make up stories about people. Who they are, what they're doing, where they're going. Maybe it is a little childish for an eighteen year-old girl - woman - but I don't care. It's fun.

And, anyway, my Psychology of Aging lecturer says some studies have suggested that 'maintaining an active imagination throughout one's life can help to stave off dementia and loss of memory in old age.'

So there.

I consider my observations, piecing them together to form a narrative. And then I immediately second-guess myself, toning down some of the weirder elements to make it - and me - seem a little less strange. (It isn't nearly as interesting, of course, but I guess you can't have everything.)

"She works in advertising. Her team is putting together a huge, important bid. It's make or break for her company, which is struggling financially. But the other party moved up the presentation at short notice, so she's been pulling all-nighters to get it done. She's practically mainlining coffee at the moment, and she's started smoking again. She tells herself she'll quit when this is over, but she knows she'll only start again the next time she's under that kind of stress." I pause for breath, giving Shae a small smile. "How's that?"

She makes a noncommittal noise. "It's okay, I suppose," she drawls. Her faint accent lends the words a touch of the exotic. (I love listening to her speak.)

"Just okay?"

She shrugs gracefully. (I've never met anyone who shrugged gracefully before. But she does everything gracefully. Even fold tea-towels. I wonder if that's something she could teach me, perhaps. I'd love to be that graceful.)

"It's a little... ordinary... isn't it? You can do better than ordinary."

That sounds like a challenge.

Suddenly, all traces of self-consciousness disappear as if they never even existed. (Oh, if only.)

Alright, fine. Let's try the original version.

"How about this, then? She does work in advertising, but that's not relevant to this story. She took a new lover recently, and she's been spending a lot of time with him. A lot of late nights. She thinks that's why she feels so tired all the time lately, but that's not it."

"No?"

"No. It's also not the reason why she's taken up smoking again; why her nicotine cravings have come back with a vengeance after having quit years ago. But those things are connected."

"Ah, a mystery," Shae murmurs. "Now you have my attention."

"Her new lover is a vampire. He's been feeding on her, and more. Those cravings she's feeling, they're not for nicotine." I make my voice deep and ominous. (I feel a pang as I realise I'm inadvertently imitating my father.) "And she's just starting to realise something's wrong..." I let those words hang for a moment, then raise my eyebrows. "How do you like that version?"

"Better, much better," she says. "Although I do hope her lover doesn't sparkle in sunlight."

"No, of course not," I hasten to reassure her. (Even if, in the privacy of my own mind, I don't think that would be so terrible.) "I was thinking old school, like Rice or Brite or Hamilton."

Shae sighs, lifting her eyes heavenward. "Sometimes I forget how young you are," she murmurs. She makes it sound kind, fond even. Not like a criticism. That goes some way towards heading off my sudden flare of defensiveness.

Even so.

"You're not that much older than I am," I can't help retorting.

She's, what? Early twenties? Mid-twenties at the most. Not that she'll ever tell me her exact age. Or anything much about her past. It's frustrating, but I kind of like the fact that she has an air of mystery about her. It's romantic.

And it means I'm free to make up my own stories about who she really is and where she comes from.

Maybe she's a witch. Maybe she met a faerie prince under the pale moonlight, and the two of them fell hopelessly in love. But maybe he was sworn to marry another, and so his cruel father laid a terrible curse upon Shae. Now, she's doomed to live a life without magic. A life without her love. A life of endless drudgery, where she has only fleeting, broken memories of the wonders she used to know. Until the curse is broken...

(Alright, I admit it. I love tales of the supernatural. And I'm also a bit of a sucker for gothic romance. Anything that combines the two is pretty much catnip to me.)

Putting the stack of tea-towels to one side, Shae leans on the counter-top next to me, studying me thoughtfully. "You know, you should write down some of your stories. You could post them online for people to read."

I'm already shaking my head. I don't even have to think about it.

"Oh, they're just silly things. Childish, really. I'm sure no one would actually read them."

"I would read them."

I start to duck my head again, then consciously make myself stop. (School - and everyone there - might be behind me now, but some habits are hard to break. No matter how hard I try.)

"Maybe make them a little less florid, though."

And I'm back to blushing uncomfortably.

"Don't you two have work to do?"

I jump half out of my skin, of course. Shae spins around quickly, but her natural grace makes her look like a ballerina. I probably just look like a shocked rabbit.

Asha emerges from the storeroom, glowering at the pair of us like she's just caught us with our hands in the till. She's casually hefting a sack of coffee beans on one shoulder, moving like it barely weighs a thing. (It always surprises me how strong she is, given her size. Not that she's petite or anything. I mean, she's shorter than I am, but so are a lot of people, Shae included. But she's only a little broader-framed than me. Not exactly built like a brick... outhouse.)

She sets the sack down on the counter and starts refilling the grinder with fresh beans, the aroma of them wafting deliciously through the air. I love that smell. Honestly, it's one of the reasons I applied for this job in the first place. Not the main reason, or even in the top three, but it was definitely on the list. (The top three reasons were, of course: money, money and money. A student loan only stretches so far and, much though she'd dearly love to, Mother isn't really in a position to help me out.)

I scurry over to help Asha fill the grinder, oddly pleased when she gives a wordless grunt of approval. (She can be very expressive sometimes, even without needing to resort using to actual words.)

Shae stays exactly where she is, lounging against the counter like she owns the place. Like she hasn't a care in the world. I can't help but be impressed by her bravery, even though my stomach twists a little with worry for her. I'm not ashamed to admit that Asha scares me a little. And then there's the fact that she's the assistant manager here.

I know Shae needs this job - she's confided in me that much, at least - so why does she take every opportunity she can to try to provoke Asha?

Take now, for example. That look she's giving Asha is nothing short of insouciant.

"There are no customers," Shae points out. "The morning rush is over and the students are either still in bed or at lectures."

Asha snorts, clearly less than impressed with Shae and her attitude. That's pretty normal for her, though. She doesn't seem to think much of anyone or anything, me included.

"Better not let the boss catch you lazing around," she says acidly. "He'd probably threaten you with a spanking."

I can't help a shudder. Mr Baelish seems nice enough, and he's certainly very friendly, but, well, he can be a little... unsettling. And that does sound like something he'd say, smiling that little smile of his to show that it's all a joke, that it's all in good fun.

Except it's not really all that funny.

Anyway, he's not here today. He's off at some management meeting, leaving Asha in charge. Which isn't really any different to when he is around, I suppose.

Shae snorts. "He could try," she says, and there's a dangerous edge to her voice that she rarely allows herself to express. "I think that he would regret the attempt."

Much to my surprise, Asha grins, the expression fierce, maybe even predatory. "I'd almost like to see that," she says, cheerfully. "But I probably shouldn't be encouraging insubordination among the crew."

Shae rolls her eyes. "Aye-aye, *Captain*," she says, infusing the title with a truly impressive amount of sarcasm. She straightens and grabs a cloth from its hook. "I will wipe down the already-clean tables." And she flounces off to do just that.

She does manage quite an impressive flounce when she puts her mind to it.

Asha is scowling after her, the grin wiped away, her face now looking like the sky before a storm.

"Um," I say, tentatively, struggling not to flinch when she turns her hawklike gaze on me. "How's the ship coming along?" I blurt out.

She stares at me for a long moment while I quail inside a little, but then her face relaxes from its scowl and she nods. Enthusiasm animates her features as she seals the sack of beans and stows it carefully away. We start restocking the syrups, sprinkles and marshmallows.

"We're making good progress," she says. "We were having some problems with the timbering, but that turned out to be because we'd been sent a duff batch of wood. But I ripped the supplier a new arsehole and he replaced it free of charge." She sniffs disparagingly. "As well he should. He's lucky I didn't report him to Trading Standards."

I nod agreeably. It seems appropriate at this juncture.

"Of course," she continues. "If it was up to me, we'd cut and treat our own wood, but apparently there are laws against just grabbing an axe and chopping down an oak tree or two. Or three. Anyway, we're going to..."

Her words wash over me, sprinkled with technical jargon I don't have a hope of understanding. But I understand enough to get the gist of it, and I'm quite impressed. It takes a certain amount of determination to build a Viking longship from scratch, using as close to the original materials and techniques as possible. I'm almost as impressed by the fact that she's managed to assemble a motley group of people who not only share her ambition, but are willing to travel down to the coast with her one weekend in four to work on making it happen.

Although, I guess being a member of the Living History society probably made it easier to find like-minded souls.

"...hoping to have the Hafgufa sea-worthy by the summer after next," she finishes, proudly.

"The Hafgufa?" I repeat, trying to pronounce it the way she did. It sounds a little like I'm clearing phlegm from my throat.

"Big sea monster. Think Kraken."

I can practically hear the capital letter.

"Oh." I consider that a moment as we return the excess stock to the storeroom. "It's a good name."

"*I* think so."

"Standing around chatting, Asha? Don't you have work to do?"

Shae's amusement is almost palpable as she leans against the doorframe, raising one eyebrow. Asha turns on her with a face like thunder. I search in vain for something to say, for a way to calm the situation down before the hostility between them boils over, automatically taking a step back.

(...the tension in the air, like a promise of violence, of ugliness to come...)

I feel my gut tighten, making me want to hunch in on myself, to wrap my arms around my middle and curl up in a little ball.

I... don't deal well with confrontation, even when I'm not directly involved.

Why oh why can't people just get along?

I see Shae glance over at me as I freeze, torn between conflicting urges to intervene and to flee far away from here. Something flickers across her face, there and gone far too quickly for me to figure out what it means. Then she grits her teeth and sighs, conspicuously looking at her watch.

"It's time for my break, anyway," she says. "I'm sure the two of you can hold the fort without me for a few minutes."

Asha looks briefly puzzled, then nods, guardedly. "Don't take too long," she says.

Shae rolls her eyes. "I won't, don't worry." She takes off her apron and hangs it on its peg, and retrieves her handbag from the storeroom. (It does double duty as a place for us to stash our things while we're working.) "Do you want anything from the shops?"

She's looking at me, but Asha answers before my throat unlocks enough for me to speak.

"No. Thank you."

"Sansa?" Shae prompts.

"No, I'm fine thanks," I say, managing to speak more or less normally.

"Then I'll see you soon." Giving me a smile and a wave - and ignoring Asha completely - she heads out of the shop.

Asha turns to me, scowling, and I brace myself for I don't know what, but then, as if in answer to all my prayers, I hear the ping that signals the coffee shop door opening.

A customer?

Asha glances over towards the door, then immediately ducks back into the storeroom.

"Great," she mutters quietly; viciously. "Just what this day needed. A visit from the bloody Dragon." I start to ask what she means, but my question turns into a squeak as she grabs my arm and unceremoniously propels out of the storeroom. "You can deal with her," she whispers brusquely. "I don't have the energy or the patience for her bullshit right now, and I definitely don't want to have to explain to upper management why I felt the need to bodily throw a customer out of the shop."

"But-"

"You'll be fine," she says, decisively. Unfortunately, she then spoils the effect by adding: "Good luck."

The next thing I know, I'm standing out there on my own and Asha is nowhere to be seen.

What on earth is *wrong* with her?

Still, there's no time to worry about that now. I have a customer to deal with. Putting on my smile like a mask, I swipe my access card to log into the till and launch into my little rote greeting.

"Good afternoon and welcome to Hot Coffee. What can I get for you today?"

I look up, and find myself staring into the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Much brighter than the muddy blue-grey I see every time I look in the mirror. They seem like they should sparkle in the light, like gemstones, and I'm immediately struck by a wave of raw envy.

As well as inspiration for my inner writer.

When I can tear myself away from her eyes, I'm somehow unsurprised to realise that the rest of her is just as perfect. Her skin is tanned and smooth, with no hint of a spot or blemish on her face, and her lips are full and pink. One of her dark eyebrows - both neatly shaped - arches inquisitively beneath her incongruously blonde fall of hair.

She's beautiful.

(Unlike me.)

Belatedly, I realise that she's speaking and, flushing, I make myself focus.

(Even her voice is beautiful. Commanding and clear, practically brimming with confidence.)

(I'm so very, very jealous.)

"You're new," she states, sounding for all the world like a queen making a pronouncement.

"Sorry," I say instinctively, then wish with all my heart that I could bite the word back. But I can't, so I just continue gamely onwards. "I mean, I suppose so. I'm the newest member of staff here, anyway. But I've been working here for about four weeks now."

I realise that I'm starting to babble and make myself stop. I take a deep, calming breath.

"Hmm," the customer says, studying me. I can't help feeling uncomfortably like she can see right through me, right to the scared little girl hiding behind my adult facade. I have to fight not to fidget under her gaze. "Your name is..." Her eyes flick down to my name badge. "Sansa?"

"Sansa Stark," I confirm, feeling like I should curtsey or something. "And you are...?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. Pleased to meet you."

Such an unusual name. Lovely, though. (Like her.) I wonder where it's from.

"Pleased to meet you, too," I echo faintly. "Are... Are you a regular customer here?"

"I am." She nods, and then frowns. "Although, I have occasionally been less than satisfied with the coffee here recently." Her gaze sharpens, and even though I'm taller than she is, I suddenly feel like I'm about an inch high. "Perhaps you'll do better."

"I can certainly try!" I'm aiming for cheerful and professional. I think I hit somewhere south of manic. Oh well. "What would you like?"

"I'd like a double-shot espresso macchiato, please." Okay, that doesn't sound too bad. But she's not finished yet. "Made with one shot of hot milk, not foam, and poured Italian style, not American. With one shot of Belgian dark chocolate syrup and two of peppermint."

Oh. That's... Oh.

It's all starting to make sense.

"Just bear with me a moment..." I fumble my way around the till, figuring out the right combination of buttons more by guesswork than anything else. At least, I assume it's the right combination. Certainly, the customer - Daenerys - doesn't seem to bat an eye when I repeat the total. She hands over a loyalty card with her money, so I guess she really is a regular.

(I wonder why I've never seen her before. I certainly wouldn't have forgotten her.)

Right. Now for the hard part.

"I'll just get started on your drink. You can take a seat if you want, and I'll bring it over when I'm done."

"That's alright, I'm happy to wait. Besides, this way I get to see if you do it right."

No pressure, then.

I take a moment to go through the process in my mind, and then retrieve everything I'm going to need, laying it out neatly on the counter.

Okay, I can do this. I can. Except... What does 'Italian style' mean? Should I try to guess? Or should I ask her? I waver for a moment or two, then decide to bite the bullet.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"I haven't made this drink before, and I want to be sure I get it right, so could you please tell me: how do I pour it Italian style?"

She frowns for a moment, eyes flickering towards the storeroom, before she looks back at me, her expression turning into a smile. I find myself standing up a little straighter, basking in its glow.

"It means that you pour the milk into the espresso, rather than the other way around. Everything else is as it sounds, but please ask if you're not certain about anything else. I'm a firm believer in asking questions."

"I will." Her smile is oddly infectious. I wonder if I look as dazed as I feel. "Thank you."

Right. Here we go. Start the milk heating. Dispense and tamp the espresso grounds. Lock the head in place on the machine and start the drip. Pour the syrups into the cup. Wait for the espresso. Measure and pour the shots. Check the milk temperature. When it's ready, measure and pour. Remember at the last minute not to add the foam. Add the final flourish: an abstract design on the surface drawn using the tiniest dribble of chocolate syrup.

And... done.

"One double-shot espresso macchiato, made with hot milk, poured Italian style, with Belgian dark chocolate and peppermint syrup. I hope it's to your liking."

"Thank you." She takes a sip. I hold my breath as she savours it for a moment or two, looking thoughtful. Please let her like it. Please let her- "Well done!" she says, beaming. "Very good for a first attempt. I see I'll have to make sure to have you serve me in future."

"I'll be here!" I say, wincing internally at how much of a ninny I sound.

Daenerys nods at me and ensconces herself at one of the tables, pulling out a laptop and a couple of thick books. I try not to watch her too obviously as I clear up the work area, pretty much carrying out the task on auto-pilot. In almost no time at all, she seems to lose herself in whatever she's working on. I wonder what that is...

"Well, fuck me sideways." Asha's voice comes from behind me, her tone ripe with disbelief. Her Orcadian accent is stronger than usual, but I don't think she'd thank me for pointing it out, so I don't. I turn to face her and find that she's looking at me like I've grown a second head. "That's something I never thought I'd see. Someone's finally soothed the savage beast." Her eyes narrow and she looks me up and down appraisingly. "You've been holding out on us, Stark. Seems you've got hidden talents."

I shrug helplessly, not really knowing what to say. Daenerys really doesn't seem very dragon-like. A little intimidating at first, perhaps, but she seems friendly enough. So, why on earth is Asha reacting the way she is?

There has to be a story there.

And I'm going to find out what it is.