Dany
The Tempel of Light was smaller than the one in Volantis, but the crowd of people flocking there was astounding. The great variety in the crowd of people surprised Dany even more. She spotted men in all know skin colours, ranging from darkest black to pale silk.
Dany stood like a sore thumb. Her dress was painted in an earthy-red colour while the other followers chose bright crimson robes. Malla offered to lend her one of her robes, but Dany declined politely. She liked Mella, but she had no intention to become a follower of the God of Light. She lost her belief in gods during her early childhood.
And yet Malla was able to convince her to visit the Temple of Light. Maybe the reason was her loneliness.
Three moons ago Jon left to join the Second Sons in a campaign to Qohor. What the campaign entailed she didn't know, she only hoped that he will return in time to hold his child in his arms.
She knew that she was with child before he left and had every intention to tell him about it, but then Jon brought up his plan to join a Second Sons. She may hate the idea, but she was aware that they needed the coin. She liked Mella and her, but she couldn't imagine remaining in their home forever.
Jon was working himself to the bones and barely earned enough to pay the rent. Dany herself was well-liked for her writing work among the neighbours, but no merchant or higher-standing Braavosi would be prepared to employ her in his shop. She learned this quickly after she tried to advertise her services to a higher-paying audience. Some of them even threatened her and told her to return to her slave master.
It was a hard lesson, but no surprise. The Braavosi may boast about their freedoms, but when a slave was trying to rise above his station it was seen as a threat.
"You look rather pale," Malla remarked, as they climbed up the many steps leading to the Temple of Light. Dany with her swelling stomach had to walk slower than Malla, but the other woman didn't seem to mind the slower pace. "Is the child giving you problems?"
"No," she replied and laughed. "But the kicking is driving me mad."
Malla laughed and helped her climb up the last step. "Then I am sure it will be a boy."
Dany didn't know what to make of her words. It was a mystery to her how strong kicking can be an indication for a male child, but then she never had a child.
"How do you know?" she asked as they crossed the large courtyard, leading to an arched entrance, flanked by two large torches made of iron. The flames were roaring and two acolytes in crimson robes were singing songs as they continued to stir the flames to life. "You have three girls."
Malla laughed again and put her arm around Dany's shoulder.
"True," she agreed. "But my mother was a midwife. Whenver a child prove a strong kicker it turned out to be a boy. But you are not wrong. Mara was a strong kicker…well, my prediction turned out to be wrong. Sadly, I am not like priestesses of my god. I cannot read the flames."
"Do you think they can really foresee the future?" Dany asked.
"Some can," Malla replied and led her into a long hall, lightened by numerous torches. Another staircase followed. The steps were made of marble as black as the inky sky and the flames reflected on the small surface looked like stars. "I am sure about it."
Dany wished she could share her belief, but kept her doubts to herself.
At the entrance to the sanctuary of the temple they were greeted by two young acolyte girls. They looked very young and when she took a closer look she recognized Hadi under the red-face painting she had applied on her beautiful face.
Dany wanted to greet her, but Malla put her finger on Dany's lips and led her deeper into the temple. Like the other followers they receive a small candle, before they were allowed to pass in the large hall housing the sanctuary of the temple.
The sight of the sanctuary made Dany gasp. On a raised stone pedestal stood a massive cup of roaring flames rising into the night sky above.
An uncountable number of stars twinkled down on her through the open dome. The sheer beauty of it made her forget about her earlier discomfort.
"I told you how beautiful it is ," Mella whispered and pulled her along. "But now we need to be silent or the God of Light will not hear our pleas."
Obediently, Dany followed after Mella and sat down next to her. They sat in the middle of the great hall, right next to large stone pillar made of the same black marble like the reflective stairs outside. Dany could even see her face and silver hair reflected back to her. It looked like a veil of moonlight falling around her shadowed face.
Moments later the ceremony began. About a hundred acolytes accompanied two priestesses leading a procession to the burning cup. The two priestesses were beautiful beyond compare. Both were tall, their pale faces unblemished by time and dressed in flowing silks of crimson. The acolytes wore simpler clothing and their hair was kept short.
Dany was never particularly gifted in music, but the voices of the priestesses were soothing to the ear, almost like a lullaby. The music had an almost hypnotising effect on her mind.
It took all her concentration to understand the verses of the song, spoken in a rather old dialect of High Valyrian.
You are in my heart, God of Light!
There is no other who knows you,
Only your loyal children, who you have taught your might.
Those on earth come from your hand as you made them.
When you have dawned they live.
When you set they die;
You yourself are lifetime, one lives by you.
All eyes are on your beauty until you set.
All labor ceases when you rest in the west;
Your light banishes away the darkness.
Your children pray to thee,
Protect us from harm and the false gods.
Shine a light and lead us through the darkness.
For the night is dark and full of terrors!
"For the night is dark and full of terrors!" the voices of the followers echoed through the hall. Dany felt a shiver running down her spine as they continued to chant.
The false gods, she thought and wondered what they would think of Jon's gods. Why do they need protection from false gods?
Yet she was beginning to understand the appeal of the God of Light as her gaze wandered over the assembled crowd. Most people here came from humble backgrounds, their clothing dirty and ragged. Many sported faded slave marks and others were beggars hailing from the dirty parts of the city. The God of Light made no difference between poor and rich men. He took and gave as he pleased. It was no wonder that the poor and desolate were flocking to him like sheep, though Dany was sure that some of them only came to receive a warm meal.
Two times a week they offered warm soup and freshly-baked bread to the hungry of the city. Today was not different and even Mella convinced her to partake. Dany wanted to refuse, arguing that she had no need for it.
"Come, child," Mella said softly and pulled her along towards a group of women. Dany noticed instantly that all of them were marked with the tear-like tattoos meant for pleasure slaves. "I want to introduce you to my friends."
"Sisters," she greeted them and graced the women with a soft smile. "I hope you don't mind if bring a friend to join us."
"Of course not," an elderly woman said. She was graced with black leathery skin, her grey hair kept in a long braid falling to her waist. "Be welcome, sister," she added, her eyes fixed on Dany's neck. Today she decided not to wear a shawl, because Mella told her that most slaves would see it as an insult.
"Where do you hail from , child?" another woman asked. She was much younger than Mella, her hair pale like Dany's and her eyes dark like ink.
Dany swallowed hard and decided to be honest.
"I can't remember…I was young when they captured me. I served in Volantis and later I was brought to Westeros. Half a year ago I managed to get here."
Her story earned her stunned looks.
"You must be blessed by R'hllor if you made it through all this," one of the younger women said. Her hair was red like crimson and her eyes blue like the open sea.
"Maybe," Dany replied politely, though their curious looks made her uncomfortable. She didn't want to embarrass Mella. "I hope so."
"Here," the young girl seated next to the crimson-haired girl said and handed her bowl. It was watered soup, littered with herbs and meat. It was not much, but for the beggars it must be a mighty feast. "Eat. You look thin."
Dany had the urge to laugh. She was always thin, but she couldn't tell that to the girl's face.
The rest of the night passed quickly as the girls entertained her with their tales of woe. Dany was surprised how open they spoke about it, but she also noticed the bitterness hidden behind their smiles.
Compared to them Dany had an almost kind upbringing. She never lacked proper food and her Mistress never hurt her. Her life in the North was hard, but her time there was too short to leave a harrowing memory on her mind. By now she had almost forgotten about it.
It was past midnight as they made their way back to down to their residence, the stars and the moon lightening their way.
Few people could be seen on the streets and thus the two men, garbed in rich velvet cloaks stood out to her like a sore thumb. That their faces were shadowed by their cloaks added to her feeling of discomfort.
The cobbled street was broad and wide, but the men walked straight towards them. Dany felt a hint of apprehension, but only when Mella's fingernails started to dig into her arm she started to feel fearful.
"Whore!" one of them cursed and spit into Mella's face. "Your Master should have cut off your limps and fed you to the crows. A slave should know his place."
Mella didn't move, her gaze unyielding as she brushed the spittle from her cheek.
"You will come to rue your deeds, whore!" the other man added loudly. Then they were gone, swallowed by the darkness.
Dany trembled, completely taken off guard by their behaviour.
Mella was calm, though her features betrayed anger. It seems this was not the first time this happened to her.
"Child," Mella said after a moment of silence had passed between them. "Do you care for a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" Dany asked."Now?"
"We shouldn't take our usual route home," Mella explained and pulled on Dany's arm."Come…I know a nearby tavern."
"Who were these men?" Dany asked after they sat down at table near the entrance.
"Brutes…they work for the slave masters," Mella explained, her face guarded and her hand resting on her amulet.
"They bribe them to harass escaped slaves and those who strive against their crimes. I am one of these people and that is why they insulted me."
Dany felt liked slapped, realization dawning on her.
"The burns…You were a slave?"
Mella smiled and patted her cheeks.
"Of course I was a slave," she confirmed.
"And that is the sole reason these men insulted you?"
"Yes," Mella explained and graced her with another smile. "As I said…I am working against them. The women you saw…we are part of a group. We help escaped slaves, but we also gather money to smuggle them to Braavos. Our initiative is founded by the Iron Bank."
"The Iron Bank?" Dany asked, unable to believe it. "They are giving you money to smuggle slaves?"
Mella chuckled and took a sip from her cup of steaming tea.
"Well, I doubt they are doing it because they are selfless," she replied. "But one of my friends serves the wife of Tycho Nestoris. She is one of us, though she hails from a very old family that once resided behind the Black Walls of Volantis. Her father fell victim to a political scandal and was disinherited. Downtrodden and penniless he had no other choice but to sell himself and his daughter into slavery. She never told my friend how she ended up as Tycho Nestoris wife, but they say she was very beautiful in her youth. Anyway, her husband funds our initiative. I don't think I have to say that the slavers are not happy about our actions and thus they are employing brutes to disparage our cause."
Dany was stunned by her tale.
"That sounds foul," Dany replied. "Someone should report them. Isn't slavery a crime?"
"True," Mella added and placed her cup of tea back on the wooden table. "Slavery is a crime, but holding a view that supports slavery is not forbidden. And we have no proof."
"So we can nothing we can do nothing against it?" she asked.
"We?" Mella asked, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Do you want to join us? Are you not afraid?"
"I am not afraid," she assured her, though it was a lie. "I can read and write High Valyrian and several other languages and dialects…Could that be of use to you?"
Mella's eyes widened in surprise.
"You can read and write High Valyrian?"
"Aye," she confirmed proudly.
Mella smiled and patted her shoulder.
"I think you could indeed be of help to us."
…
Jon
The rising sun painted the river Darkwash in a bloody glimmer. Beyond the river Jon spotted a sea of pine-trees as dark as the river before them.
This is the true gold of Qohor, one of the sergeant's told them. With the sold lumber the rulers of Qohor buy their armies of Unsullied.
Busco, another recruit who hails from Braavos told him great detail what the training of the Unsullied entailed. Torture, murder and blood, he summed it up. Caspian and Rollo, two other recruits hailing from Braavos refused to believe it.
No man would be able to slaughter babes.
This incident occurred two days ago, but Jon and Busco soon found other companions who didn't hesitate to share their gruesome stories with them.
Tito, a Sheepman, didn't hesitate to tell them about their enemy, the Dothraki. Even in Westeros they knew about them; valiant warriors armed with bows and curved blades. Yet it was their fearlessness in face of death that made them so dangerous.
Never face a Dothraki horde on an open field, Tito had told him and bared his white teeth. He spoke their language well, but was prone to confuse certain words, which often led to amusing misunderstandings.
Jon liked him, because the young reminded him of Robb. Like his brother the young man excelled with the lance, though Jon was still the better swordsman. Yet it was the preferred choice of weapon among the Second Sons. Every recruit received one, accompanied by a shield and leather armour. Most men brought their own horses, but those who were less fortunate had to accept a deduction from their salary to acquire a horse.
Jon was one of these unfortunate souls, but the salary would still be enough to live a year without worries.
"What are you frowning about, Jon?" Busco asked and watched a group of men running off in the bushes with two camp whores. They usually slept close to the Commander's tent who frequently asked for their company.
Jon felt only disgust when he thought of the leader of the Second Sons. Captain Mero was a tall man and sported a bushy red-gold beard. He gave the impression of a seasoned warrior, but after tree moons in the man's service Jon felt nothing but dislike for the man.
While his men starved and were forced to sleep on the hard floor he resided in a tent of Myrish silk and sipped his wine from a golden cup. Jon was not the only person who held this opinion, but like all the others he kept his mouth shut.
Only six moons, he told himself and forced a smile over his lip. Only six moons.
"Our mission," he replied. "Why do the rulers of Qohor employ sellswords to fight the Dothraki horde when they have these unbeatable Unsullied at their disposal?"
Busco frowned and rubbed his bearded face. He was one or two years older than Jon, but he had the face of a boy, all soft and without the hint of a scar. Why he decided to join a sellsword company was a mystery to Jon, because the young man wasn't particularly gifted with the sword, though he was a passable rider.
"I have no idea," Jon replied at last and shifted his attention to Tito, who was oiling his blade. "You claim to know everything about these Dothraki…Why do you think they employed us to fight the Dothraki horde?"
"The Dothraki are strong and valiant, but they are not exactly cunning. They wear no armour and they don't know how to take cities protected by stone walls. They would never be able to take Qohor with its high walls and his army of Unsullied. That is why they attack the smaller towns along the trade lines. The rulers of Qohor usually pay ransom to the Dothraki to stop the attacks, but the first six moons of these saw already two major attacks. It seems they want to make clear to the Dothraki that they crossed a line, though I am not sure the Second Sons and the Stormcrows will be enough. The high payment promise danger and blood."
"Well, we are safe for now," Tito added and jerked his head at the camp. It lay situated before a hilly landscape, the river Darkwash curling behind it and disappearing in the dark forest. Mero was a fool, but the man who decided about the placement of the camp chose a good place. It was a compact camp, orderly and well-defended. A deep ditch was dug around the outskirts, sharp stakes jutting into the air like sharp fangs. "The Dothraki can't swim and this place here is the only possible crossing point for horses."
"How comforting," Jon added sarcastically. "Maybe it would be best to simply lure them near water and drown them."
Busco wrinkled his brows in confusion. "There is a river over there if it escaped your attention, friend."
"It didn't escape my attention," Jon replied. "I was thinking of a lake…not a river. Besides, it was a silly notion. I was just joking."
Yet Tito seemed to like the idea, his golden-brown eyes alight with amusement.
"My Uncle knew a man who escaped from Vaes Dothrak…not far from the city you can find a mighty lake the Dothraki like to use for cleaning rituals. I wish we could just drown all these bloody Khals in this lake. That would be quite ironic."
His joke was laced with anger, but that was no surprise to Jon. Even in Braavos they heard about the woes of the Sheepmen. Their towns were often raided by the Dothraki horde and its inhabitants sold into slavery. Dany knew numerous girls who suffered this fate.
"Certainly," Jon agreed and pulled his cloak over his shoulder. Then he emptied his cup of watered wine and rolled to his side. He was a man born and bred in the north, but Qohor proved colder than anticipated. The days were pleasantly warm and the sky crispy blue, but the nights were freezing cold.
Even now his breath left his mouth in the form of white puffs rising up into the starry sky.
Dany's is right, he thought before falling asleep. This here is much different than the practice yard of Winterfell.
…
The sun had barely risen beyond the horizon as they crossed the river. The road that followed filled Jon and the other recruits with discomfort. The path before them proved narrow and not all suitable for mounted riders. Even worse was the hilly landscape rising to the north and covered with thick forests.
"Why the frown, friend?" Busco asked habitually as always. "Do you think someone will jump out of the woods and attack us?"
Jon laughed, trying to hide his apprehension and tightening his grip on his spear. He felt almost like a knight, ready to storm into the next enemy.
Prince Rhaegar was known to be a masterful jouster and yet he failed in his most important battle against Robert Baratheon.
Who knows what the world would look like had he won?
Jon met King Robert and found little to admire about the man. He has grown fat and spent his days consorting with whores. How is he any different from Mero?
Prince Rhaegar was a fool for running away with his Lady mother, but there had to be something good about him. Why else did men die for him? Or did they just die for the crown?
Such questions were whirling through his mind in these quiet hours of waiting.
"This place is the perfect place for an ambush," Tito added and flashed Jon an assuring smile. "But I doubt the brave Dothraki would choose such a cowardly hiding place. The word Ambush is a foreign to them. They would never hide away from their enemy."
"Sounds comforting," Jon replied and forced a smile over his lips. His arse was wound from the long ride and he longed to stretch his limps, but that was only the beginning of their hardships.
They travelled for endless hours along the road, before they arrived at an elevated ridge overseeing a long plain-like landscape. It looked as if someone burned off the woods and left nothing more than scorched earth.
The work of the Dothraki horde, Tito had explained, but Jon refused to believe it. Why would they burn away such precious trees?
To get more ransom, Tito had answered, but to Jon it was a waste. Wood was precious good to the people in the North, but it seems the Dothraki don't share their beliefs.
Yet that was only a small part of the devastation left by the Dothraki horde. A day later Jon and the other recruits were separated to join scouting teams and soon they were confronted with more and more bloodshed.
Half a day they rode and passed one devasted village after another. They found burned fields, bloated corpses and heads put on pikes.
The sight made Jon sick, though he tried to hide it from the other more experienced men. He didn't want to give the impression of a green boy.
Now and then they found women and children, wandering aimlessly through the landscape, their eyes riddled with madness.
"Curse them!" Tito exclaimed when they found the corpse of a woman, her limps and head cut off and arranged in some odd blood ritual. "May the Great Shepard banish their souls in the darkest pit of hell."
Busco was deadly silent and hardly spoke as they made camp and slept in the desolated ruins of the town. At night they only heard the whispering of the wind blowing through the collapsed wooden palisades that once surrounded this dwelling.
"These Dothraki are exceptional bloody," Vhraesi, the leader of their scouting team muttered to himself. He hailed from Norvos and was a veteran of war. It was hard to guess his age, but his hair was completely grey and his face riddled with deep scars as if someone pushed needles into his bare skin. "It seems a khalasar chose a new Khal."
"What has the choosing of a new Khal to do with all this bloodshed?"
"Whenver a new Khal is named they try to establish their reputation. It seems this one wants a bloody one. Every khalasar is different, but you never know what goes through the mind of a Dothraki."
The man's words gave Jon much to ponder until he finally fell asleep. The sun woke him mercilessly and by midday they made it back to their camp located on the ride.
"Finally!" their leader gasped and stroked his beard. "The Stormcrows found us."
They counted around five-hundred men, but their equipment proved much better than their own. Both men and horses were equipped with proper armour.
Their commanders proved also more agreeable than Mero. None one of them bedecked themselves in comforts above the men riding under them.
No, they even drank with the fresh recruits, though Jon got the feeling this done out of pure amusement.
Yet it gave Jon the possibility to get a look at their allies.
There were three join commanders leading the Stormcrows. Daario Naharis, the first joint-commander, was a strangely-looking man with a blue beard, his clothing far too bright for a mercenary. Yet he seemed to enjoy the trust of his men and Jon couldn't find any fault in him other than his strange appearance. The second joint commander was a man named Sallor the Bald who sported a twisting scar on his right cheek. Apart from his tendency to pick his nose with great regularity he spoke very little and poured down one cup after another. The third man was a man named Prendahl na Ghezn and hailed from Ghiscar.
The watered wine flowed, but Jon stopped at the third cup.
"You are rather pale around the face, my boy," Daario Naharis japed and pointed his blade at Jon."Is the pisswater wine too much for you?"
Jon forced a smile over his lips and shrugged his shoulders.
"Seeing the mangled corpses the Dothraki left for us taints even the best wine," he replied and earned himself an amused smile.
"That is true…we have yet to pay witness to their bloody deeds," he replied and refilled his cup, his eyes still fixed at Jon. "You are not from Essos, are you? Your accent is strange."
"I hail from the Westeros… the North," he replied vaguely.
His eyes widened in surprise.
"Westeros," he repeated and his eyes widened in surprise. "What brings a boy from Westeros all the way to Essos?"
"An adventurous spirit," Jon replied vaguely, but Busco decided to piss into his soup.
"Oh, come on, Jon!" his friend exclaimed and patted his shoulder. "Why not tell him about your heroic tale?"
"Heroic tale?" Daario asked and stroked his blue beard. "Oh, please tell me about your heroic tale. That is an order."
"I follow only Commander Mero's commands and not yours," Jon rebuffed him.
Daario laughed, but Busco told him anyway. Probably out of fear from the other man.
"Jon freed a girl from a brothel," he explained. "A noble deed, isn't it?"
Instantly, the mocking smile vanished from Daario's face and was exchanged with an almost serious expression.
"My mother was a whore," he said and raised his cup to his lips. "She was a pretty woman and drank herself to death. I wish my cunt of a father who impregnated her would have done the same. These slavers are a nasty bunch. I wish the Dothraki would raid their cities instead of providing them with fresh meat."
Jon couldn't help but to smile.
"I think this is something we both can agree on."
…
Arya
She hadn't been allowed to leave her rooms for days. She forgot what fresh air tasted like, but even a blue sky and the tough of warm sunlight on her skin wouldn't be able to wash away the bitterness in her mouth.
Weeks ago her father was imprisoned by Prince, no King Joffrey, but why and how it happened was still a mystery to her. All she knew is that Sansa had something to do with it, because when the Kingsguard came to capture her they mentioned that her sister proved herself loyal to the new King.
Arya still refused to believe it. Sansa could be stupid, but selling out their father to the enemy was another matter.
Yet Arya still recalled Sansa's horrified reaction after Lord Father announced his intentions to send them back to Winterfell.
Arya was delighted, though she was saddened to leave her dancing master, but Sansa cried bitter tears and refused to speak to their Lord Father in the following days.
So far Arya has yet to get a glimpse of her sister, but she guessed that she was kept under guard like her.
The Queen had no qualms to demand Lady's death. Arya doubted Sansa's betrothal to Joff would stop the Queen from imprisoning her sister if meant to serve her cause.
I hate them, she muttered to herself, her face plastered against the painted window. Outside she spotted the Gold Cloaks marching over the courtyard, two servant girls talking to the guards and a bare-headed man garbed in a lilac tunic speaking to two small children.
It was impossible to escape from here. She tried numerous times, but every time they caught her and the Queen had her disciplined for her disobedience.
Wild little animal, she liked to call her, but Arya couldn't care less what the evil Queen or her stupid son thought of her. If Nymeria was here she would order her to bite off their heads.
Yet Nymeria was far away and now even Needle was taken from her. The Queen took her blade away after she tried to stab the Prince and a day later Joff made her watch as her brother's git as melted into a nice drinking cup.
Arya never felt more hatred for a human being than in this moment.
May he choke on his wine!
Yet her precious blade remained lost.
The thought alone was enough to conjure tears to her eyes and made her grab the windowsill until her knuckles started to ache.
"Lady Arya Stark!" a hated voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She hadn't even noticed the entrance of Ser Meryn Trant, but the bruises still marking his cheek made her smile.
My best work.
"Your sister Lady Sansa is here to speak with you."
Relief washed over her as she spotted Sansa hovering near the entrance. She looked pale, her hair delicately braided and garbed in a simple black dress.
"Please leave us alone," she told Ser Meryn who obeyed without and closed the door behind him.
Instantly, Arya hopped to her feet and embraced her tightly.
"I heard you misbehaved," her sister remarked quietly, her hand brushing over Arya's cheek. "Why are you making it harder than necessary?"
Arya felt like slapped and backed away from her.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "They imprisoned our Lord father! We have to get away and leave this cursed city!"
"I cannot leave," Sansa insisted stubbornly. "I am betrothed to the King. He loves me and I will convince him to show mercy to our Lord Father, though he committed treachery against our King."
"Loves you?" Arya asked and continued to walk backwards until she hit the stone wall. "Do you even listen to yourself? He imprisoned our Lord Father!"
"I know that," Sansa replied and gave her a chiding look. "But what choice did he have? Our Lord Father named him a bastard of incest. As I said before…I will convince him to show father mercy. His love is true…I know it. He will allow father to take the Black."
"You call that mercy?" she asked, her voice rising louder and louder. "If our Lord father called Joff a bastard then I am sure it is true. Father would never lie about something like that."
Yet Sansa remained unmoved by her tantrum.
"Arya," she sighed heavily. "You are behaving like an unruly child. If you insisting on behaving like this you will have to remain here. Your talk would only displease the King and it will only be harder for me to convince him."
Arya remained silent for a long time, all kind of violent thoughts rushing through her mind.
She tried to keep her composure, but being locked up here for days and the loss of Needle made her prone to throes of anger.
"Then go back to your stupid King!" she snapped, turned around and crossed her arms in defiance. "Marry him and have his bastards! I can't endure your stupid talk any longer! Go away!"
"As you wish!" she heard Sansa's angry and the clash of the door.
She was alone again.