The inn reeked of piss, sweat, and ale. While remaining an assault on every sense known to man, Fainche found her new residence comfortingly familiar. Piss was preferred to lilacs and sweat to suspicious glares. The Hanged Man's Inn was a humble building - wilting wood floors creaked underfoot, soft dirt revealed itself where its wooden armor had worn away. Old oak boards were ravaged by rot, the dark swirls of mold creeping up the walls and across floors like an all-consuming shadow. There were no windows in the commons, the only source of light a low-hanging chandelier of half-melted candles whose burning never ceased. A portly woman stood behind the bar, shamelessly returning the half-drunk flirtations of her customers.
Fainche sat, crudely propped on her elbows, at one of the several wooden tables with an untouched pint before her. It was unlike the woman to refrain from drinking alcohol, being good friends with the distraction that booze offered. None of her problems were unsolvable, as long as she had a little encouragement from a good few goblets of ale. Fainche vaguely thought to her usual reaction to danger and new places - customarily, she'd get drunk and get a good fucking from whatever bastard took her fancy that night. Yet here she sat, sober as a silent sister, surrounded by a bunch of drunk idiots.
Deep amber eyes scanned the inn, sharp and wary of any strange faces. Fainche was aware that the eunuch probably had someone watching her tonight - perhaps she would not be alone for the entirety of her stay in Westeros. She doubted that Varys would want her to misplace her head before his intended purpose for her was fulfilled. Thoughts were a maelstrom in her mind, drowning her senses and forcefully pulling deeper into the murky depths. The woman realized all too well that she was walking a path of rotten ice - one hesitation, one misplaced step and all was done for her. It was but a moment before Fainche surfaced from the seas of her mind, as it was far too full of sirens that sung of only memory for her to enjoy the greedy waters.
No more thoughts.
She downed the piss-ale before her quickly, relishing the burn as it slipped through her throat and settled like liquid fire in her stomach. Fainche smirked, feeling the telltale warm tingle of the foul yellow liquid spreading like an epidemic through her body.
No more thoughts.
A man, a comely appearance with a shock of light brown hair, caught her eye. He sat among other men that would've have looked respectable, had they not been drunk off their asses, and seemed almost as tipsy as they did. Fainche's grin grew, a predatory, sensuous expression, as she looked the man over with hooded eyes. Slithering from her perch on the bench, Fainche stalked toward the man with feline grace and a feral smile. Only briefly did she think about how she wasn't drunk enough for this yet.
No more thoughts.
"Care to buy a woman a drink?" Fainche asked the crowd of men, Eastern accent a thick as she spoke. She felt no need to cover her origins now. She held no desire to impress these men, only to bed them. The men took only moments to respond, excitedly calling for another round of ale. Fainche took up roost next to the brown-haired man, giving him a slight smile, before turning to the rest of the lot. "Bottoms up!" She laughed, guzzling the drink, eager for the high it offered.
No more thoughts.
The events of the next few hours were unclear, filled with black holes of time and blurry memories. Fainche woke beside the man whose name she still did not know, fully aware of the familiar reek of sex. Sitting up, the naked woman pulled her knees to her chest, propping her elbows on top of them. The fouled sheets pooled around her body, exposing unclothed breasts, as she ran slender fingers through unkempt black hair. Her fingers lingered in the mess of locks, tearing at the roots till Fainche felt her scalp sting. She felt strangely unclean, the dried layer of sweat and the wetness between her legs disgusting her. It was not often that Fainche felt sickened by her loose ways, usually enjoying the satisfaction of a successful night, yet now all she felt was the migraine from her hangover and the ache in her lady parts.
Slipping from the warmth of the rough spun covers, Fainche hastily dressed herself. Her clothes showed no ill-treatment, not revealing any rips or tears as they usually did after a such a night. The black leather and cotton of her cowl-necked blouse remained unstained by any unsavory fluids and her cloak had been draped carefully across a post of her bed. Fainche tied the leather bindings of her pants with practiced fingers, a small smile pulling at her lips. Closing the gap between herself and the nameless man in but a few quick strides, she gave him a chaste kiss on his forehead. "My thanks," She breathed, not wishing for the embarrassment that would commence if she deigned to wake him. "Your company was more enjoyable than most, Ser."
Fastening the deep green cotton of her cloak with a old clasp, ornately decorated with the amber and obsidian of Asshai, Fainche spared no more glances at the man before she left the room. She would not think of the man again, his attractive face would fade and so would the night he shared her bed. He was naught of concern to her anymore. That man had lost Fainche's notice as soon as he had finished inside her.
Fainche stepped out of the Hanged Man with little weight on her chest and a certain excitement stirring within her breast. She knew only soft whispers and vague rumors of Westeros, but she knew for certain that they had no magic like Asshai possessed. Westeros had only mad kings and worn, foul men and by the light of R'hllor was she going to dispel such wearisome things. She was not paid to dispirit the crowd, she was paid to entrance it.
A wild grin curled the edges of her thin lips, the white stripes of her shadowcat catching her eye. It had taken far too long for her precious beast to escape, but she appreciated his distance as causing a panic in the people-clogged streets of King's Landing was certainly unwise. With steps in time with her distant shadowcat, Fainche headed toward the bloody walls of the Red Keep.
-*-.-*.-*-.-*-.*-.*-.-*-
It was nearly the midnight hour before Fainche was beckoned by a steward cloaked in golden lions on a red field. Upon her arrival at the keep earlier that evening, she had been presented with new clothing, as her traditional travel-worn leather ensemble had been deemed inappropriate for the company of a king. As such, Fainche was submitted to the slight physical obstacle that the long black drapes of Myrish silks offered. The fine fabric was unfamiliar against her skin - far too fluid, far too soft for her to receive comfort from. Her breasts went without support, as there was no corset, and the cut of the dress accentuated her very slight curves.
A cool fury flickered in her eyes. Fainche had seen to speaking with Varys again, in order to discuss her performance tonight, and while conversing with the eunuch had been much more pleasant that the previous time, she was still unnerved by the once-man. Certainly, he was smiles and pleasantries and very proper around even a woman such as herself yet a particular sense of being only a miniscule part of something far greater always played at the edges of her mind around the eunuch. It did not help that he required her to be soaped and scrubbed until her skin glowed like a pretty maiden's cheeks after insinuating about her actions the night before. Did he have someone watch her fuck the man from last night? The notion had made her face flush with humiliation and Varys had triumphed over her yet again. Lord Varys had shamed her and Fainche was far too powerless to even retaliate. It made her blood burn in her veins.
Nevertheless, here she stood, waiting for her turn to play the fool in front of the drunken King, all for a fat lot of gold.
The velvet-pelted shadowcat that was curled lazily at her feet gave her comfort, if only just a sliver. His white tipped tail flicked her toes in vague annoyance, as if he shared his master's masked rage, and despite the black lids that cloaked the beast's golden eyes, the restless nature of his ears revealed the cat's vigilance. Fainche took a long, deep drink from the goblet in her hand. Traditionally, the woman refrained from drinking moments before a performance, but Fainche had a ghost of a feeling that she might need the high the booze offered once again.
Another steward [perhaps the one from earlier, although Fainche could never quite differentiate one golden-haired, green-eyed boy from the next] bathed in lions beckoned her forth and Fainche moved to follow, the shadowcat at her heels. Only briefly did the woman let herself think of how deep in the shit of Westeros she had already found herself before stepping out before the crowd.
Hello again everyone! I want to tell you guys how happy and grateful and surprised I am by all the reviews, favorites and follows I've received already on this story! A special shout out to those that reviewed last chapter: The Velvet Ash, Jedi-Helen and Savannah's Angels! Thank you guys so much for taking the time to review :] Please continue to tell me what you think and I'm glad everyone is liking Fainche so far! Hopefully you guys don't dislike her after this chapter and, speaking of dislike, I hope that the references to sex in the first part weren't off-putting. Things really pick up next chapter!
See you soon!
