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Chapter Text

No one paid much attention when the girl bought the building.

Why would they? It was the kind of place even the wind passed over – crooked and crumbling, with half the roof fallen in and ivy growing in through the walls. The wood was soft with rot. The shutters hung like tired eyelids. The stone stoop was cracked through the center like something had once tried to claw its way out.

Some said it was cursed. Others called it haunted. Whatever it was, it had long since collapsed inward, half-swallowed by mildew, rot, and disinterest.

And then one morning, without fanfare or fuss, the girl bought it.

She was young, not child-young, but just into womanhood young. She wore her black wavy hair loose and wild. Her clothes were odd, worn, but appeared of fine quality. Her hands were clean, her fingers soft without callouses seen in most of the working class. Her accent didn’t belong to any part of the city, though she spoke clearly.

She paid for the building in full. She unflinchingly handed over a pouch of strange gold coins – far more than a family could make in an entire year – without haggling, signed her name in a tight, slanted script no one could read, and set about fixing what should’ve stayed broken.

People saw her at all hours sweeping out soot and broken tile, hauling firewood, hammering something with too much determination to be healthy. She fixed things. Mended things. Dusted off old brick like it deserved a second chance. Sometimes she sang to herself. Sometimes she talked to a lump of something curled in her pocket.

She didn’t hire anyone. She didn’t complain. She just kept going.

They gave her a week before she’d walk away. Instead, the shutters went up – sun-yellow and neat, like buttercups pressed into place.

The crooked sign above the door was taken down, scrubbed clean, and replaced with a new one carved by hand. It hung from black iron hooks polished to a soft shine. The words were painted in warm gold:

The Countess & The Cup

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. But it was…hopeful. Like the building had finally remembered what it meant to be useful.

The door was sanded smooth. The hinges oiled. Lavender was planted beneath the windows. The cracked glass was replaced with panes that let bright in light and made the whole building feel warm and safe.

People still didn’t go near it. Not until the scent came.

Cinnamon, first – the real kind, warm and sharp like memory. Then golden sugar. Melted butter. Roasted herbs. Toasted onion. Cheese browned just at the edge. And smoke, faint and sweet, like something baking too long in a hearth because someone got distracted reading.

It curled through the alley, into open windows, around laundry lines and chimney stacks. It settled in the lungs and stayed there, like it had always been waiting for a place to land.

And people, without quite meaning to, turned towards it.

It wasn’t like a tavern and not quite like a bakery. It felt like something in between. A bakery-tavern that served drinks and had small brown tables surrounded by yellow wooden chairs.

Most bakeries served bread and pies, took coin, and then shooed their customers away. This one not only offered customers to linger…but encouraged it.

Most taverns served alcohol and had barmaids that yelled too loud at unruly customers. This one had no alcohol, the girl never raised her voice, and unruly customers found themselves inexplicably in the street without being able to recall how they got there.

The inside was decorated almost like a greenhouse, with plants lining every available surface and dangling from pots hanging from the ceiling. What wasn’t covered in greenery, was covered in flour and treats instead.

There were shelves lined with warm things that steamed softly in the morning light. Trays that clinked with crusts so golden they looked sun-kissed. Tiny tarts with sugared tops and fruit tucked inside like a secret. Soft rolls, twisted into knots and brushed with honey. Savory pastries folded around roasted garlic, caramelized onion, or bits of sharp cheese that melted in your mouth but left a little fire behind.

Each morning, something new appeared behind the little glass counter – never labeled, never repeated. Some had flecks of herbs. Some had seeds on top that crackled between your teeth. Others tasted like nothing you could name but reminded you of home, if home had ever been quiet and kind.

And then there were the drinks.

She served hot chocolate so rich it clung to the tongue, with a bitterness that balanced the sweetness like it knew restraint. Tea brewed in pots of painted cast-iron – sometimes floral, sometimes smoky, sometimes both. And coffee, black as pitch and offered with sugar, honey, and various flavored extracts. Served in delicate cups too delicate for comfort but too perfect to put down.

People didn’t know the names of what they were ordering. But she never minded. If someone pointed and said, “That one,” she gave it to them with a smile and sometimes, if they looked particularly tired, slid a second one across the counter without charging them.

No one ever saw her bake, though the saw the evidence of it. No deliveries ever came, though her shelves were always fully stocked. The baskets never ran out. The back room stayed shut.

Someone swore she whispered to the oven. Someone else said she had flour on her nose and magic in her fingers. But no one really wanted to know, because the food was warm and the tea was good.

And for the first time in a long time, a tiny, quiet part of King’s Landing felt like safety…even if no one knew how the prices worked. At first, it almost felt like a trap.

The pastries were warm. Fresh, spiced, and flaky in a way that meant real butter – a lot of it. The herbs were never bitter, the cheese was sharp and clean, and some of the rolls had this whisper of clove, cinnamon, or cardamom that no one in Flea Bottom had tasted in years.

Even the flour tasted…different. Fine-ground and clean. Not a single hint of mildew or grit.

The drinks were even better – hot things poured from mismatched kettles that smelled of roasted bean, toasted grain, or dark bark steeped with things no one could name. Some tasted like winter markets. Others like citrus from far-off ports. All of them cost less than a copper or two.

And that was the strangest part.

Spices, everyone knew, were for the nobility. Cinnamon? A luxury. Cardamom? Imported. Nutmeg? Don’t be ridiculous. No small shop in King’s Landing – certainly not one tucked between a dilapidated wine merchant and a shady brothel – should’ve been able to serve them at the prices she charged. And yet, there they were, folded into sweet things, hidden in stews baked into bread, stirred into mugs that steamed like they remembered warmth long after you left.

The prices weren’t just fair – they were absurd. Lower than the cost of making the thing, as far as any other baker could tell. There were whispers of smuggling, alchemy…devilry.

But the girl – Holly, as the locals learned – just smiled when asked. Shrugged, sometimes. Offered something warm and said, “Try this instead.”

And that was usually the end of the questions.

Because when a girl in worn boots served you food that made your eyes sting and your chest ache and your belly feel full for the first time in days…you didn’t argue.

You just came back.

It wasn’t just the food that made people curious…it was her.

The girl behind the counter. The one with flour on her sleeves and a quiet sort of confidence. She moved like someone who belonged somewhere else – chin high, shoulders relaxed, never hurried even when the shop was full. She looked everyone in the eye, didn’t flinch at yelling, and never raised her voice in return.

She wore layers of warm yellow and black, colors like old gold and hearth soot. Her dress was simple but well-made, dyed a soft marigold with full sleeves embroidered in delicate black thread. Over it she wore a black apron embroidered with golden flowers, leaves, and curling vines – as if someone had stitched an autumn garden into the fabric. The quality of the dress and apron were high, the embroidery flawless, but the girl wiped her flour covered hands on them like she didn’t notice.

A deep front pocket sagged with use, and the apron ties wrapped twice around her waist before knotting with careless ease. Her boots were scuffed but well-kept, always laced tight. The sort of outfit made for work, but it never seemed to wear her down. If anything, she wore it like armor.

She spoke with crisp, careful words. No slurring, no drawl. Her accent wasn’t from the Reach, or the Crownlands, or anywhere familiar at all. Too neat. Too clipped. Not foreign exactly – just wrong in a way no one could place.

She used strange phrases. Thanked people too much. Called customers “love” and “darling” and sometimes “ser” even when they clearly weren’t. She never seemed afraid, not even when the Goldcloaks stopped in. Not even when men from the brothel next door leaned in too close.

And people noticed.

They noticed how clean the place stayed, even during the lunch rush. How her aprons were always starched. How her curls were always pinned back, except when they weren’t, and then somehow it looked intentional.

She never wore silks. No gold or gemstones. Just a single old-fashioned key on a chain around her neck, and a dark ring on her finger that looked plain until the light caught it wrong. But the way she walked, the way she stood – like she’d been taught – made people talk.

More than one passerby noticed the colors. The golden yellow. The black apron. Even the embroidery – flourishes of curling leaves, gold thread catching the light – looked a bit too deliberate.

Baratheon colors, some whispered. She must be a cousin. A bastard, maybe. Sent away.

When asked, the girl only smiled.

“They’re my house colors,” she said, and then – grinning like it was the best joke in the world – “No, not Baratheon. Hufflepuff.”

That name meant nothing to anyone. But she said it like it should.

So the rumors adjusted. She wasn’t just noble – she was foreign nobility. Holly Hufflepuff, they called her after that. The name stuck to her like cinnamon sugar, and she never corrected it.

Then there was…the Countess.

The first time anyone saw it, they thought it was a trick of the light. A glint of metal. A twitch of motion. Something too small to be real and too alive to be a bird.

It darted from her pocket as she leaned over the counter one morning – just a flick of shadow and shimmer, like sunlight catching on something with wings. Several customers blinked. One swore. No one said anything right away.

But it happened again, and again.

A flash of bronze scales. A whipcord tail, barbed at the tip, curled around her wrist. Tiny claws gripped the edge of the pastry case as it peered at a raisin bun with exaggerated suspicion before snorting a puff of smoke that smelled faintly of mint and ash from a mouth of tiny jagged teeth and a beaked mouth. A jagged crown of blackened-bronze horns swept back from its head, continuing down its spine in a serrated ridge—like a broken crown that never quite stopped.

A girl screamed once. She pointed and shouted “Dragon!” and half the room laughed – until the creature blinked at them from the rafters and let out a hiss so sharp it rattled the copper spoons.

After that, people stopped laughing.

It was no illusion. No trick of candles or shadows. The thing had wings. It flew. It perched on her shoulder and chittered in her ear. It curled up in her apron pocket like a cat, and when it yawned, you could see the heat of it, the little sparks curled behind its teeth.

A dragon.

Teacup-sized. Red-eyed. Sassier than sin.

She called it Countess Erszébet Báthory the Second.

Most people couldn’t say that twice if they tried. So it became Zeezee to the street. Zeezee who stole bites of puff pastry when she thought no one was looking. Zeezee who growled at drunk men and chased flies with tactical precision. Zeezee who snored like a kettle and slept in a mixing bowl by the hearth.

And Holly – Holly Hufflepuff, Holly with the strange clothes and stranger name – treated her like royalty.

Not a pet. Not a beast. But something old and precious and deeply loved.

A few concerned citizens tried to report it. One went to the Keep. Another sought out a septon. One woman swore she’d speak to a Goldcloak the next time she saw one.

But by the time they arrived…they’d forgotten what they were meant to say.

Not entirely. Just enough. Enough to hesitate. Enough to second-guess. Enough to say, “It’s probably nothing.” And go back home with the taste of honeyed bread still on their tongue.

People stopped caring where the girl came from after that. If she had a dragon and wasn’t dead, she was either too powerful or too lucky to question.

Probably both.

After a while, no one could quite remember when the shop opened.

Some swore it had always been there, tucked at the end of the alley like a secret waiting to be found. Others insisted it was new, barely a season old. But even they admitted – grudgingly, over bites of warm bread and sips of dark, spiced tea – that it felt older…familiar. Like a place from a dream you forgot having, or a memory someone else gave you.

The alley was the kind people didn’t wander down without a reason – narrow, crooked, with stones that sweated in the heat and signs that dangled on one hinge. Most didn’t notice the black-painted door at the end. And those who did often found they’d forgotten it again by the time they reached the next street.

To the left, a brothel with velvet curtains too faded to tempt. To the right, an old wine-seller’s place, its windows cobwebbed and its sign bleached near blank. But if you followed your nose – warm sugar, burnt butter, something sharp and citrusy – you might stumble on a little shop called The Countess & the Cup, and a girl with flour on her sleeves who served kindness in teacups.

It was the kind of place you couldn’t find twice on purpose, but somehow always stumbled into just when you needed a snack.

Chapter Text

There was flour in my hair again.

Of course there was. I don’t even question it anymore. At this point, I’m convinced the flour’s alive. Sentient, malicious even. It probably waits until I look vaguely presentable and then dives for my temple like it's been training for it.

Zeezee chirped from the windowsill. Loud and judgmental. Sunbathing like she paid rent.

I didn’t even look at her. “Don’t start.”

She chirped louder.

I wiped my hands on my apron – already ruined, thanks – and tried to pretend I wasn’t arguing with a miniature dragon before sunrise. Again.

She let out a long, deeply theatrical sigh. The kind that said, I’m disappointed in your life choices, which is rich coming from something that once tried to eat a soap bubble and got a headache.

“I don’t need life advice from someone who once swallowed a button and nearly choked to death.”

She flicked her tail and turned her back on me. Rude.

The shop was quiet, warm, filled with the smell of browned butter and the kind of cinnamon that costs more than rent. I had three trays cooling on the counter – honey fig swirls, some savory cheese-thing I half-invented last night, and these lemon-drop creations that tasted like a hug and a slap at the same time. Perfect. All of it.

For about ten seconds, I actually felt okay.

And then the memories crept in.

Not the bad ones. Not those. Just...the annoying ones. Like McGonagall squinting at me across her desk when I came back for my last year, a walking trauma dump with a dragon in my pocket and bags under my eyes so big they needed their own postal code.

“She’s not dangerous,” I’d said, holding up a palm-sized lizard who immediately tried to set the Headmistress’ desk on fire.

“Emotional support creature,” I’d added, while Zeezee shrieked at McGonagall like she had a personal vendetta against her. She’d become…sentient after I fed her too much magic to keep her animated. Then she started thinking. I maybe accidentally made her alive.

Shockingly, I wore McGonagall down…barely. Probably because she felt sorry for me about Hedwig and everything that happened after. Or maybe she just didn’t want me to cry in her office again. Either way, Zeezee got her own pillow in my dorm and spent most of her time bullying first-years and eating forbidden snacks.

We were both deeply unfit for polite society.

It got worse, of course. Eighth year was a circus. Everyone staring, everyone whispering, everyone trying to decide if I was going to snap or cry or explode. Some days I did all three, and then I found myself outside the Room of Requirement whispering, “I just want to be gone.”

And the bloody thing listened.

One minute I was in Hogwarts. The next? Cobblestones. Screaming. Horses. People with swords instead of wands. Someone tried to sell me a turnip the size of my head. I turned around to go back…and the door was gone. Classic.

Oh, and surprise – there’s a key on a chain around my neck now. Magic Room Key™. Thanks, Fate.

I ended up buying a crumbling building in the only alley more suspicious than my Hogwarts report card. Between a brothel and a wine shop. The roof was held together with curses and hope, and something in the walls hissed when I hammered nails, but I made it work.

Because apparently, that’s what I do. I make it work.

I called the place The Countess & the Cup because Zeezee decided she was royalty now, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. The Room – when it feels like cooperating – opens up as my pantry, always fully stocked. Sugar. Butter. Spices from who-knows-where. Basically a criminal amount of vanilla. I could sell these pastries for a king’s ransom, but no…I'm charging two copper because Merlin forbid I be economically stable.

Someone knocked on the window.

“I’m not open yet!” I yelled.

Zeezee puffed smoke at me.

“Oh, don’t you start.”

She launched herself onto my shoulder with the grace of a sock full of nails and clung there like some kind of smug brooch. Her claws pinched. Her breath smelled like burnt thyme.

I reached for a raisin bun. She hissed.

“I made it. I own it. You don’t get to gatekeep my carbs.”

She took a bite out of it anyway and gave me a look like that’s what you get for talking back.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just me, my spite-powered bakery, and my six-inch fire hazard of a roommate.

At least no one here calls me Potter. Just Holly, thanks. 

Chapter Text

The bell over the door hadn’t even finished its cheerful little jingle when Garen ducked inside, bringing half the street’s heat with him. He was a nice young man a few years younger than me, and had high hopes of landing an apprentice gig with one of the local blacksmiths.

That was one thing I still haven’t quite gotten used to yet…I had regulars. People that I knew by name, that stayed and chatted with me like we were old friends. I think I liked it.

“Still haven’t fixed your shirt, I see,” I said, not looking up from the honey glaze I was brushing across the still-warm knots of dough as Garen leaned over the counter.

“It’s a fashion statement,” he said, tugging at the frayed collar like he hadn’t slept in it. “Some of us can’t afford your fine embroidery and noble flour. And it’s called a tunic.”

“That’s because you spend all your coin on spiced wine and bad decisions,” I made a mental note to remember tunic. But I knew I’d forget again in less than an hour.

“And yet,” he said, pointing smugly at the tray, “I still get the first one.”

Zeezee hissed from my shoulder, but only because she wanted the first one. Garen ignored her – he’d grown used to her dramatics after she once tried to steal his belt and got tangled in it like an angry ribbon.

I handed him a fresh bun on a fancy small porcelain plate that I was pretty certain used to be a teacup saucer. The Room provided…as long as I didn’t ask questions.

“Eat it before Zeezee gets ideas.”

“She already tried to roast my boots once.”

“They were ugly.”

The shop was warming up by now, both in temperature and noise. Sunlight filtered in through the front windows – softened by lace curtains I may or may not have stolen from a very dramatic wizard’s travel trunk lost in the Room once upon a time.

The counters gleamed with morning polish. A copper kettle hissed on the stove behind me that was technically just the metal top of the brick oven I used to bake. It filled the air with that earthy scent of steeping herbs and whatever dried petals I'd found last night and decided to experiment with.

The bell rang again as more customers entered. One of my (least) favorite regulars groaning in annoyance as the stool by the front window creaked when she settled on one. Old Mara was an interesting character. I enjoyed her company – in small doses – and was sometimes even charmed by her rude behavior. Her back was bent like a question mark and her elbows as sharp as her tongue.

“You still put that mint in the tea?” she asked without greeting.

“No, Mara,” I said. “I removed it just for you. I sensed your displeasure from across the veil of dreams and rewrote my entire tea menu in a spiritual panic.”

She harrumphed. “Smart mouth for someone who gives free scones to strangers.”

“Strangers leave,” I said, pouring her tea. “You keep coming back. That makes you family.”

She grumbled but took the cup, lifting it with the same reverence you’d give a goblet of healing potion. Her pinky still stuck out like she’d once been someone fancy. I never asked. She never offered.

The door jingled again.

This time, it was Thomlin, a gangly apprentice from the parchment shop three streets over, who always looked surprised to still be alive. He ducked in like the sky might fall and clutched a coin in his fist like someone might steal it off him mid-order.

“I…um. The lemon ones?” he asked.

I gave him two. He always paid for one. I didn’t mention it.

Zeezee puffed smoke at him. He shrieked, as usual.

“Honestly,” I said to her, “he’s here three times a week. You’d think you’d be bored by now.”

She blinked slowly, then reached out a claw and tapped the glass case like a judge making her ruling.

The shop creaked around us – the beams in the ceiling shifting with the heat, the stones of the hearth clicking as the fire cooled. It wasn’t a big space, but it breathed like it was alive. Warm wood counters. Soft pillows on the window seats. Various plants that my Hufflepuff soul required to function in any environment. Jars of dried herbs and colored sugar lining the shelves like potions. Light spells tucked in the sconces to mimic beeswax glow.

Most people didn’t notice, but I did. Every detail mattered.

People came for the food. But they stayed because the shop felt like a secret they got to keep.

I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching as my regulars found their seats, their mugs, their rituals. Garen tearing his bun in half and pretending it didn’t burn his fingers. Mara soaking hers in her tea. Thomlin nibbling like he was afraid the pastry might bite back.

Zeezee climbed up to the curtain rod and curled around it like a smug gargoyle, her tail flicking in time with the clock I didn’t own.

And for a minute – just a minute – it didn’t matter that I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. Or if I’d ever get back. Or if there was a back to get to.

Because I had a shop. I had regulars. And I had cinnamon rolls.

Honestly? Could be worse.

Chapter Text

It’d been a year.

Twelve full moons, one questionable harvest festival, three minor street fires (none of which were my fault), and a quiet birthday no one noticed.

Nineteen, or nine and ten, as the locals say – because of course Westeros needed to make counting sound like a death sentence. The day came and went like any other. No cake. No presents. No terrible singing from Ron. No banner from Hagrid made of questionable fabric and worse spelling.

Just me, a tray of lemon pastries, and Zeezee starting a blood feud with a decorative spoon.

Honestly? Not the worst birthday I’ve had.

The shop looked good, though. Golden light pouring through the windows, the smell of cinnamon and browning butter drifting through the door like bait. We had a line out the front again. Half locals, half “I’m not a regular but I definitely heard you have those cheese things.”

I was elbow-deep in kneading dough when I caught sight of the two Goldcloaks near the front of the line.

They were trying very hard to look casual.

One leaned against the wall, arms crossed like he was posing for a painting. The other picked imaginary lint off his already-polished armor. They weren’t shoving people or sneering at street rats. They weren’t even glowering, which was suspicious all on its own.

But they were eyeing the pastries like they were performing surveillance on an enemy scone.

I wiped my hands on my apron and nodded toward them. “Our city’s finest, pretending to be off duty,” I said quietly. Probably not quiet enough, but no one seemed bothered by it. The old man, Warrick, cracked a small smile on his weathered face as he paid and left. I count that as a victory. The man was usually too grumpy for anything more than a few sharp words and a disapproving glare.

What he disapproved of, I’m not certain. But I think it had to do with me being a near twenty-something unwed foreigner woman that owned her own business. Didn’t stop him from coming in every day for the same order though, so it mustn’t have bothered him too much.

Whatever, girl boss for the win, I guess.

Zeezee peeked out from under the flour bin, snorted smoke, and crawled back into her hiding spot like a grumpy gremlin. She didn’t like authority. Or men in helmets. Or anyone taller than a fruit crate, really.

The Goldcloaks made it to the counter eventually – still posturing like they’d wandered in by accident.

“Two,” said the first one, a tall man – built like those bodybuilders Dudley used to watch on the telly – with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes said while pointing as one of my round savory buns. “For, uh…patrol.”

“Of course,” I said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want the realm to fall while you’re on your snack-based mission.”

That earned a twitch of the mouth. Possibly a smile. Possibly annoyance. Hard to tell, to be honest.

The other one, broader and younger, pointed vaguely at the menu. “The ones with the cheese and the herbs. And the round ones with sugar.”

“So, all of them?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You’re hard to patrol past.”

I boxed up their order to go and pretended not to be listening into their very clearly private – public – conversation…just like everyone else in my shop.

“You hear about the Queen?” the tall one murmured.

“Not recently,” the broad one grunted.

“Word is she’s near to bed again.”

“Again? Damn. She’s barely out of the last.”

“That’s royalty for you. No rest. Just heirs.”

I slid the box across the counter with a raised brow. “You’re not very discreet.”

“We’re not very paid either,” said the younger one, pocketing a coin before placing the rest in my jar. “Least we get decent breakfast.”

“Tell your captain I’m still not baking for meetings,” I said. “The last time he tried to barter me for a goat. Do I look like I need a goat?” I wondered what a person looked like when they needed a goat. Probably not like me…hopefully.

The bell above the door jingled as they left, muttering about goat politics.

I leaned against the counter, watching the steam rise from a tea pot. This was my life now. Flour under my nails. A magical pantry through a door only accessible by an old key that was temperamental at the best of times, and judgmental all the time. A teacup-sized dragon with trust issues. Customers who argued about sweet vs. savory like it was a blood feud.

And me…the girl who saved the world and then walked out of it.

Sometimes I missed it – magic lessons, flying, shouting over wind. I missed Hermione’s eye rolls and Neville’s awkward bravery. I missed the smell of the Hufflepuff common room and the way Hogwarts felt alive beneath my feet. I missed not being the only person in the entire kingdom who knew what a toaster was.

But I liked it here, too.

I liked how people came back. How they left little knickknacks folded into napkins and notes tucked behind the sugar jar. I liked that The Countess & The Cup smelled like home – whatever world that meant.

I glanced at Zeezee, now curled in the windowsill, tail wrapped neatly around a warm honey loaf that I carefully stole from her to wrap it up for the next customer. I could see Old Mara already threw the glass window, hobbling down the alleyway. She’d been on a honey loaf kick for the last month.

Zeezee cracked an eye at me and blinked slowly. She’d been in a mood all day – my fault probably – but she only snorted smoke in my direction and turned away. She was too regal to care…she was also too small to fight about it, but that never stopped her before.

I turned back to the counter, dusted off my hands, and faced the next customer as the bell jingled.

“Morning,” I said brightly. “What’ll it be? Sweets, savories, or a temporary escape from your crushing existential dread?”

Chapter Text

It was a slow morning.

Rain slid down the windows in fat, lazy streaks, making the alley outside even grimmer than usual. A dog barked three streets over, probably arguing with a goose again. The brothel next door hadn’t opened their shutters yet – either too hungover or too bored to bother.

I wiped down the counter, re-braided my hair, and rearranged the honey loaves for the fourth time. Zeezee perched in the bread basket, absolutely useless, except as a space heater and a threat deterrent.

She sneezed. A biscuit caught fire. I batted it out with a towel.

“Thank you so much for your help,” I muttered.

The door jingled.

First in was old Harwin – not to be confused with young Harwin of the Goldcloaks, that came in every few days during patrol with his blonde partner Marrick – who claimed he was a cobbler but never seemed to fix a single boot. He liked my blackberry tarts and talking about the right way to stab someone.

Right behind him was Lysa.

She’s my favorite gossip and the only person brave enough to call Zeezee “the little gremlin” to her face. She worked next door but always got up early to get a snack and drink before taking a platter of mixed sweets for her fellow ‘ladies of the night’. Lysa seemed charmed whenever I called her that, and laughingly would just tell me she’s a whore, but I knew she didn’t like that word. I could tell by the way her eyes pinched whenever she said it.

Then came Fentley, my bread hoarder, who paid in coin but always left with his pockets looking suspiciously rounded. I didn’t know exactly what it was that Fentley did, but he always had coin to spend – or pretend to spend in his case, like I couldn’t see him conveniently forgetting to pay – and was in nearly every day.

I poured tea. Harwin claimed the rain was a sign of war. Lysa said her cousin’s neighbor’s brother had seen a white raven at the Citadel. Fentley stole a honey biscuit and swore he hadn’t.

The usual.

Until Harwin finally moved onto more important conversation. Either politics or the royal family…or the politics of the royal family. He was very predictable. “So…word is the queen’s heavy with child again. That’ll make what – six?”

“Seven,” Lysa corrected. “Poor woman’s barely thirty and she’s still doing her duty like a prized brood mare.”

I blinked. “Wait…seven? How young was she when she married?”

“Oh aye,” said old Harwin, biting into his tart. “She married her cousin when she was one and ten.”

I choked. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“Her cousin,” Lysa said, casually skipping over the age issue like it wasn’t an issue. Westeros was fucking weird and needed Social Services on priority owl alert immediately. “Or maybe uncle. The Targaryens keep it close.”

“Define close,” I said, pressing two fingers to my temple.

They shrugged in unison.

My brain short-circuited. I’d been here a year and somehow missed this incredibly relevant piece of historical context. I couldn’t imagine being eleven and married to my relative!

“Is that…normal?” I asked.

“In their House, aye,” said Harwin. “Been that way since dragons first came over.”

“Right,” I said slowly. “Dragons and incest. Of course. A tale as old as time.”

Zeezee gave a proud trill from the windowsill.

“Not you,” I snapped. “You don’t get an opinion on it, you heathen.”

The absurd part? No one seemed bothered. The locals talked about it like it was just another Tuesday…milk prices, weather, cousin-marriage. Meanwhile, I was having a moral crisis while kneading cinnamon dough.

It wasn’t that I expected sense from royal families. The wizarding world had its own share of inbreeding, dark lords, and politicians with the emotional maturity of a cauldron cake. But still…eleven?

“Do they not…branch out?” I asked.

Lysa snorted. “They do, on occasion…and then the children are brought back into the main branch. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Of course they are,” I muttered.

The worst part? I couldn’t even say anything. I was already the strange unwed foreign girl with a dragon and suspiciously good pastries. If I started publicly criticizing the royal bloodline, I’d end up roasted, stabbed, or forced to marry someone named Aegon the Fifth-and-a-Half or some-such nonsense.

Harwin tapped the counter. “What’s today’s sweet?”

“Cherry almond tarts,” I said, still mildly traumatized.

“Lovely,” he said. “Reminds me of the last royal wedding.”

“Please leave,” I said with a sigh. I could feel a headache already building up behind my eyes.

They didn’t.

The shop stayed full through midday. The rain brought everyone in…muddy boots, wet cloaks, steaming mugs. I moved between tables like it was second nature now. Smile, pour, snipe, dodge Zeezee’s tail. Some days I wondered if this was what retirement felt like. Quiet. Sticky. Slightly unhinged.

Zeezee eventually crawled into my front pocket and fell asleep there, warm and heavy.

I stared at the hearth, wondering – not for the first time – how I’d ended up here.

One minute I was dodging cameras and Ministry recruiters. The next I was running into the Room of Requirement with no plan other than get me out. And the door – traitorous bastard – had opened into a crumbling alley in a city I didn’t recognize, with only the clothes on my back, a key around my neck, and a dragon in my pocket.

I never meant to stay.

But then I saw the building. The sad little shop tucked between a brothel and a wineseller. I saw what it could be.

And suddenly…I wasn’t in a rush anymore.

No one here knew who I was. No one expected me to save the world. I could bake. I could breathe. I could name myself whatever I wanted and no one would question it.

Holly Hufflepuff. Bakery Lass. Foreign Girl. Oven Witch.

I’d take them all.

Chapter Text

It began with a whisper.

Not at court, where words were polished and measured, but in the narrow places between – the drifting current of voices that threaded through the Red Keep when no one important was listening. Maids passing one another with baskets brimming and arms aching, leaning close for a quick exchange before disappearing into different stairwells. Guards trading gossip at the change of rotation, their armor clinking in punctuation. A midwife murmuring idle tales as she drew a comb through Queen Aemma’s hair before supper, her tone half lullaby, half conspiracy.

A bakery.

Not a market stall where bread was stacked in sun-warmed rows. Not some noble’s cookhouse where every loaf carried a title longer than the recipe. A proper shop, tucked down a crooked little alley behind the Street of Silk, where shadows pooled in the cobbles and the air smelled faintly of spice and steam. Run by a girl not from here.

No one could say quite where from. Sharp-tongued, too clean, the sort of clean that made the grime of the city look deliberate. Sells sweet things no one can name – pale, cloud-soft cakes that melt away before you swallow, biscuits glazed in colors richer than any silk, scones dense with fruit that have never grown in the Crownlands.

Drinks, too. Not wine, nor the thin brown ale favored by the smallfolk, but dark, bitter brews that smell like roasted beans and taste like midnight in some far-off country. A sip leaves you awake, heart quickened, thoughts sharpened.

And – this was the part that made the tellers lean in and the listeners hold their breath – a dragon.

Not a great winged terror, but something no bigger than a teacup, perched on her shoulder or curled like a brooch against her collar. It blinked like a cat and yawned like it had better things to do.

Aemma had laughed the first time she heard it. Quietly, to herself. She was too tired to laugh properly these days – too weary in body, too aware of the way laughter caught in her chest like a stitch. Still, the image lingered. A crooked alley. A strange girl. A dragon no bigger than a cup of tea.

The baby, her seventh, sat low and heavy, even at only two months. Her ankles ached by midmorning. By evening, her spine had begun to feel as though it had been strung too tight for too long, each movement tugging on some invisible cord. Her temper, once a thing she could fold neatly away, had grown short enough to cut silk.

She knew exactly how her mother would have sighed, a breath full of reprimand without the need for words. A queen does not frown. A queen does not shuffle like a washerwoman at the end of the day. A queen does not lower herself to ask after strange bakeries tucked on the wrong side of the city.

But Aemma asked anyway.

“Have you heard of it?” She said that evening, breaking the companionable clink of silver on porcelain as she poured herself a small cup of wine. The liquid caught the light from the brazier, dark as garnet. “The shop down by the Silk Street. The one with the…creature.”

Viserys did not look up at once. He was bent over the table in his solar, the lamplight glancing off the miniature spires and causeways of Old Valyria. His fingers nudged a model tower a hair’s breadth to the left, as though such precision might keep history from crumbling.

“Rumors,” he said at last, almost absently. “Nonsense.”

“Is it?”

He gave a soft snort. “Someone’s idea of a jest, no doubt. A woman selling sweets with a tame wyvern? You’ve spent too long listening to midwives’ tales.”

Aemma sipped her drink. It was warmer than she liked, and tasted faintly of smoke, but she drank it anyway. She did not tell him that the thought had lodged in her mind like a seed, or that she had been picturing the crooked alley and the strange girl since morning. She did not tell him she wanted – just once – to see something in the city that was hers alone.

She did not ask again.

Two days later, she left the Red Keep through the lower gate with her two most trusted friends…if a queen could have friends, that is.

She did not wear her crown. That would have been foolish, an invitation for every curious eye in the city to follow her. Instead, she chose a thick, travel-worn cloak, its hood deep enough to shadow the silver-gold of her hair, and boots sturdy enough for cobblestones slick with rain. Not a ring, not a chain, not a single glimmer of gold on her person to tempt a cutpurse.

Beside her walked Serene, her maid of ten years, quick-eyed and quiet as she kept pace. A step behind, Ser Calder wore the dull brown tabard of a merchant’s bored hireling – none of the gleaming plate and polished sword that would have marked him as a Kingsguard.

The rain had passed in the night, leaving the streets damp and sour with runoff. The gutters still trickled. The air was thick with the mingled smells of wet ash, frying onions, and the sharp tang of tanner’s vats. Smoke drifted above rooftops like fraying ribbons. Carts rattled over uneven stones. Somewhere, a chicken flapped and squawked against its owner’s grip. Hawkers sang their morning wares, each one trying to outshout the rest.

It took longer than she’d expected to find the alley. Each time they stopped to ask for directions, they were met with squints, shrugs, or vague waves of the hand. One old man swore on his mother’s bones he’d never heard of the place. Another told them to keep walking past the brothel with the chipped pillars, then frowned and admitted he might have dreamed it. A washerwoman cackled and said she’d seen a black door with a yellow sign once, but it had vanished the next day.

By the time they found it, it was by accident. She had given up and was heading back to the Keep when she finally saw it.

The alley was narrow enough for the walls to lean toward each other, their eaves almost touching overhead. Light fell in thin slices, cutting the dimness into pale stripes. One side held a wine seller whose door sagged on its hinges. The other, a brothel whose curtained windows still smelled faintly of last night’s perfume, heavy and sweet.

And there, tucked between them as if the space had been carved just for it, was the shop.

Bright yellow shutters stood out against dark brick, a cheerful defiance of the alley’s gloom. Gold lettering arched across the sign above, each letter crisp and deliberate. The stoop had been scrubbed clean that morning. Black doors gleamed, polished until they caught what little light there was. Beneath the front windows, neat clay pots brimmed with fresh herbs – mint, rosemary, basil, lavender – their scents spilling into the air in a soft, green counterpoint to the street’s usual staleness.

The Countess & The Cup.

Aemma blinked. “It’s real.”

Serene made a low, thoughtful sound, her eyes flicking to the bright shutters as though to commit them to memory. “Smells lovely.”

Aemma drew in a slow breath. Sweetness, yes – but not the cloying sugar of honey-cakes from the court kitchens. This was layered. The warmth of butter melting into dough, the bite of spice curling at the edges, and something deeper still. Something warm and wild beneath it all, like the scent of sun on unfamiliar earth.

They stepped inside.

The door shut with a gentle thud and the soft jingle of a bell, sealing out the damp chill of the alley. The shop was smaller than Aemma had expected – narrow, with walls that leaned in slightly, as if to keep the warmth trapped. The hearth at the far end crackled merrily, but it wasn’t only fire that made the space feel warm. The air seemed to hum with it, woven through with the smell of browning pastry and rich cream, sugar caramelizing somewhere out of sight.

Shelves lined the walls, each stacked with baked goods that were…wrong. Too perfect. Too symmetrical. Glazes caught the light like glass; fruit shone with a ripeness no orchard in the Crownlands could manage. A tray of pale, cloud-like confections sat beneath a thin veil of steam, their scent as fragile as their shape.

Between the shelves and in every patch of light, pots of greenery flourished – herbs with small, bright leaves; trailing vines that spilled over the edges of their clay homes; blooms in colors Aemma couldn’t name. Some clung to the windowsills, their roots wrapped in glass jars of clear water, while others perched high on wall brackets, leaves brushing the air as though in greeting.

The scent of them mingled with the sugar and spice, softening the sweetness with something green and alive. It was an odd thing for a city shop – more plants than some noble gardens – and yet here they were, thriving as if the little room itself willed them to grow.

Near the counter, a chalkboard leaned at an angle, letters scrawled in a confident, looping hand: Today’s Special: Sweet cream buns & lemon things. Ask nicely.

The girl behind the counter looked up.

Not Westerosi. That much was certain. And not of any house Aemma knew – no trace of familiar bloodlines in the tilt of her cheekbones or the shape of her eyes. Her hair was black as polished jet, drawn back to keep it clear of her work, the style revealing a face dusted faintly with flour as though she had brushed at it once and forgotten the rest.

Her accent, when she spoke a quiet greeting, was clipped and strange – rounded in some places, sharp in others – shaped by a tongue that had learned its words somewhere far from King’s Landing.

She wore a black apron embroidered with golden flowers, the threads dulled where flour had settled into them like pale snow. Beneath it, a marigold-yellow dress shone bright and unapologetic, the kind of color that would demand notice even in a crowd.

Around her neck hung a large, weighty key on a length of dark cord, the sort of key one did not keep for ornament. On her hand, a ring set with a dark, deep-glittering stone – opaque at first glance, but with a glint in its depths that caught and held the light whenever she moved her fingers. It was the kind of stone that seemed to watch you back.

And behind her, on a high shelf, something small and bright blinked.

At first, Aemma thought it a carved trinket – a toy left among the jars and tins. Bronze scales gleamed in the hearthlight, each edge fine enough to catch firelight like beaten metal. A barbed tail curled lazily over the shelf’s edge. Thin tendrils of smoke curled from its nostrils, dissolving into the warm air.

Then it blinked again.

Before she could decide if she’d imagined it, the creature moved – stretching in a ripple of scales before leaping lightly from the counter. Its wings snapped open like silk fans, catching the air in a rustle. It crossed the room with a flutter that was far too deliberate for a bird and far too regal for anything so small, the air of a very tiny queen inspecting her domain.

Aemma’s mouth parted. “That’s…”

“Yes,” said the girl, her voice dry as parchment. “She bites.”

The creature – dragon? – gave no indication of either confirming or denying this claim. It landed with a soft thud on a nearby shelf, claws clicking against the wood, and promptly curled into a perfect coil like a housecat settling for an afternoon nap. A thin plume of smoke drifted lazily from its nostrils before vanishing into the warm air, and its eyes – quick, bright, and unblinking – slid shut as if the three of them were beneath its notice entirely.

Aemma took a step closer to the counter, each pace measured to disguise the quickening of her heart. She had seen dragons before, yes, but never like this. Never one so small you could hold it in your palm, never one that seemed as at ease in a shop as a cat by the hearth. For a moment, she wondered if it might be a recently hatched runt – but the mature sweep of its horns, the defined lines of its jaw, and the confident span of its wings made her think otherwise.

Her pulse thrummed in her ears, and she wasn’t entirely sure if it was from the creature, the scent of the room, or the way the girl was looking at her. “What are they calling you?” she asked, her voice low, almost cautious.

The girl’s mouth curved – not politely, not sweetly, but with the slow satisfaction of someone who owned more answers than she had any intention of giving, and cared not at all whether you liked any of them. There was a glint in her dark eyes, sharp as the edge of a coin, and flour dusted her cheek like a war mark.

“Some call me the Bakery Lass,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue with a trace of mockery, “or Oven Witch, if they’re feeling brave.” She slid a cup across the counter, the porcelain warm beneath Aemma’s fingers, the steam carrying an aroma unlike anything brewed in Westeros.

Her smile deepened. “But you,” she added, “can call me Holly.”

Chapter Text

“Why witch?” the woman asked.

Her voice was careful. Measured. Like someone used to having every word weighed and written down later in someone else’s hand.

I laughed. Loudly, without bothering to hide it.

“Blame the locals,” I said, already turning to pull a fresh tray from the warmer. “Apparently if you get them hooked on morning cinnamon twists, it has to be magic. And also the dragon.”

Right on cue, Zeezee fluttered down from the shelf and landed with a clatter on the counter beside the woman’s cup.

“Speaking of which,” I turned with theatrical flair and gave the dragon a mock courtesy. “May I present: Countess Erszébet Báthory the Second, Devourer of Buttons, Biter of Unfortunate Fingers, and Terror of All Things With Feathers.”

Zeezee puffed out a bit of smoke and stared the woman dead in the eye like she was preparing to demand taxes.

I rolled my eyes. “We call her Zeezee. Unless she’s in a mood. Then you must use the full name or she’ll sulk in the flour bin for three days.”

The woman smiled – just a little – and brushed a stray white curl back from her cheek. She looked too young to have gone grey, but I can’t be one to judge. I’m pretty certain I gave Hermione grey hair by fifth year at least.

Her male companion was still near the door, eyeing the pastries like they might be enchanted. Which, I mean. Not technically wrong.

“Would you like to sit?” I asked, already grabbing mugs. “You don’t look like the loitering sort.”

She hesitated – just for a moment – before nodding.

I led them to the little table in the corner beneath the herbs, cleared it with a flick of my fingers when no one was looking, and set out steaming mugs of hot chocolate (extra cream), a plate of warm lemon slices (dusted with powdered sugar), and one of those herby cheese pastries that had become an accidental favorite.

She sat gracefully. The younger woman, quieter and more unsure, settled beside her like a shadow after giving her a stuttering curtsy that she quickly abandoned when she saw me looking.

So…a noble, but trying to hide it. Great, just what I need…drama.

You can always tell. It’s the posture. The subtle suspicion of anyone who brings them food without bowing. The way they check the rim of a cup without realizing they’re doing it. This one had the air of someone used to waiting to be served…and not quite trusting it when it happened.

I didn’t go back behind the counter. Just leaned one hip against it, arms crossed, watching. She was here for a reason, and it wasn’t for the pastries.

“So,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Oh, you know.” I waved vaguely in the air. “North-ish. West-ish. One of those -ish places.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I move around a lot,” I added helpfully, the camping trip from hell at the forefront of my mind…never again. Never ever again.

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

“Prison.”

The younger woman choked on her drink.

I grinned. “Kidding. Sort of. You pick up a lot of skills when people keep trying to shove you into careers you don’t want. Burned my first cake to a crisp. Tasted like vengeance.”

She tilted her head. “And what brought you to King’s Landing?”

“Impulse,” I plucked a raisin off Zeezee’s head. She promptly tried to bite me. “Also, dramatic existential crisis, but that doesn’t fit as well on a shipping invoice.”

She leaned back slightly, studying me.

I’ve had worse.

People always want to know who I am, where I came from, what my angle is. Most are too afraid to ask. This one wasn’t. But she also wasn’t pressing. That made her more dangerous than the ones who barked.

“I liked the view,” I added lightly, nodding toward the window. “Soot, smoke, constant threat of political instability. Reminds me of home.”

Zeezee sneezed sparks.

The noblewoman – still nameless, mind you, which I find incredibly rude – picked up her cup with a slight upward curl of her lips and took a sip like she hadn’t just walked into the strangest shop in the city and met a girl with a lizard who may or may not breathe fire.

I respected that.

“You’re not from here,” she said after a long moment where she stared at her drink with a quizzical expression. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was surprised she liked it or was trying to figure out if it’s possible to dissect a liquid.

“And you’re very observant,” I replied, wincing after I realized that it came out sounding way more sarcastic than I had intended.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. And then she smiled, the corners of her mouth tilting up like a secret.

“I like your dragon,” she said.

“She’s a menace with scales,” I replied with a laugh.

Zeezee licked her own eyeball, and it felt like the start of something great.

Chapter Text

The woman watched Zeezee delicately tear the corner off a sweet with her tiny, horribly sharp teeth. It was a glazed twist with dried cherries and a touch of cardamom. She didn’t even hesitate before wolfing it down like it personally insulted her.

“Shouldn’t she be eating meat?” the woman asked, frowning slightly. “Dragons don’t take sweets.”

I snorted. “She eats whatever she wants.”

“She’s just a hatchling. That can’t be good for her development.”

That made me laugh – loud, startled, and full of disbelief. I wiped a bit of flour off my hand and reached over to scoop Zeezee up, ignoring her offended chirp as I plopped her on my shoulder like a brooch with opinions.

“Oh no,” I said. “Zeezee’s not a baby. She’s five.”

The woman blinked. “Five months?”

“Years.”

The woman stared at her with wide eyed disbelief.

“She’s a teacup dragon,” I added helpfully, as though that explained anything. I had said it the first time as a joke. There were questions and she was in a teacup at the time…it seemed to fit. But just calling her a tiny itty-bitty mini breed was much easier than explaining that she was a magical construct made to represent her much larger counterpart that got flooded with so much magic she became alive. So it stuck.

She even had a heartbeat, I could feel it when I touched her ribs. And completely working internal digestive system…which I’ve had to clean up after more than once.

“She’s fully grown,” I continued with a smile. “She won’t get any bigger I’m afraid, but don’t think that makes her any less of a terror.”

The woman raised a single, elegant brow. “There’s no such thing.”

“Tell that to her,” I said, jerking my chin toward the beast now licking sugar off her claws with deliberate menace. “She’ll loudly screech her case right into your ear. Or set your shoes on fire. Could go either way, to be honest.”

She studied Zeezee for a long moment. “Are there more?” She then asked, curious, but with a hint of something else. Fear maybe…or maybe indigestion.

I leaned back, resting my elbows on the counter behind me. “Of course. They aren’t common, but I wouldn’t call them rare.” True as any accomplished wixen could technically make one themselves. The making it alive part was another matter entirely. “I’ve personally seen four, including her. Long story.”

“I’ve time,” she said, because of course she does. “Where are they from?”

“From my homeland, other than that,” I shrugged. “Hard to say exactly. I’ve never seen one in the wild. She was given to me and the three others to friends, I suppose. At the time at least. Sort of.”

“Given?”

I nodded. “As part of something complicated. I think mine was a punishment, honestly. The others got these cute little beauties – sleek wings, elegant scales. I got her.” I pointed to Zeezee, who was now licking powdered sugar off the rim of my plate. The demon had eaten my pastry when I hadn’t been looking. “A temperamental horned nightmare the size of a mouse.”

She glanced at Zeezee dubiously. “She doesn’t seem –”

“Don’t let the size fool you,” I interrupted. “She’s a teacup horntail. Spikes like a saw blade, claws like needles, breath like burnt mint. And a personality somewhere between a feral cat and a very petty noblewoman who thinks everyone has slighted her.”

Zeezee hissed softly, as if to punctuate the point.

The woman gave the smallest of smiles. “And the others?”

“No idea what happened to them,” I said. “We all went our separate ways. Haven’t seen the others in years. One of them was killed, and I think his father kept the dragon. Not sure about the rest.”

She studied me again, like she could peel the answers out of my skin. I didn’t give her any. Instead, I smiled and reached for Zeezee, who promptly bit me on the thumb. I yanked my hand back without flinching.

“She bites everyone,” I said irritated as I examined my injury. She hadn’t broken skin this time, at least. “Don’t take it personally if she manages to snag a piece of you.”

The woman – still nameless, with her equally nameless companions – didn’t press further. Just sipped her hot cocoa like she hadn’t come here hunting for answers.

Smart of her.

Most don’t realize until it’s too late that I only give what I want to. Not because I’m clever, but because I’ve had to be. After a while, you stop handing out the truth like a favor. You keep it close. Warm. Hidden.

Safer that way.

I topped off her drink and slid a lemon tart toward her without a word. She didn’t thank me. Just gave me this quiet, curious look like she wanted to ask a hundred more questions but knew better.

Good instincts.

Zeezee had tuckered herself out, the little menace, and was curled on a high shelf now, tail dangling off the edge, snoring like a kettle coming to boil.

I wiped my hands on my apron and started cleaning off the counter and empty tables. It was almost closing time anyways and it gave me something to do other than ignoring the woman watching me. She looked like someone used to being obeyed, not ignored. Like someone who’d been adored once – and now mourned it quietly.

“I like your colors,” she said at last, nodding to the soft yellow trim on my sleeves.

“They’re mine,” I said proudly, pausing to pose a little as I resisted the urge to twirl. There was just something about the marigold dress that made me feel like twirling was an appropriate response. Even though I was not a person that twirled in the first place. “My house colors.”

“A noble house?” She asked over the blue porcelain rim.

I smiled at her but didn’t answer. Truth was, it was a noble house. But the Hufflepuff name died a century or so ago. And while it was my house, it wasn’t my house. Not that I bothered correcting anyone about it.

Her head tilted, considering me. “What’s it called?”

“Hufflepuff.”

She blinked once, then gave me the tiniest nod. She still didn’t tell me her name. But that was fine. I wasn’t giving mine either.

Not the real one, at least.

Chapter Text

If I had a copper for every time someone swore the Queen was carrying a boy, I could retire, buy a vineyard, and grow sugar-plum trees in Essos.

Not that I’d want to. I’ve heard Essos is hot, sticky, and still smack in the middle of their slave era. Out of all the eras to be stuck in, that had to be the worst…well, that and the pre-indoor-plumbing era. I still haven’t adjusted to the general lack of running water and may or may not have installed a fully functioning lavatory (shower included) in the bedroom upstairs.

The Room of Requirement supplied the necessary diagrams and spells to make it work without argument or misdirection, as if it was personally congratulating me for making the only sensible decision I’d made all year.

I even had a little sink hidden behind the central baking oven where customers couldn’t see it. I am, without question, a champion for cleanliness. If there were medals for hand-washing enthusiasm, I’d have the gold, the silver, and the commemorative plaque.

I’d been thinking about installing a fountain outside the front door – the kind fixed to the wall so customers could at least rinse their hands before eating. Some of them came straight from mucking out stalls or hauling refuse, and a few worked with literal pig shit. You could tell just by the smell, and their hands were a visual horror show.

Disgusting, honestly. Though…not entirely their fault. What were they supposed to do, when amenities didn’t exist, soap was considered a luxury, and no one had ever sat them down to explain germs?

In fact, now that I thought about it, I doubted there was much ‘education’ at all. Most of my customers couldn’t even read – though some of them were alarmingly good at gambling, so perhaps they were just selectively illiterate.

Sometimes I wondered if I should have opened a free public library instead of a café. One with reading lessons, maybe a chalkboard, and quiet corners where people could sit without shouting about whose cousin’s neighbor’s midwife swore the Queen was craving pickled eels – which obviously meant it was a boy. Probably would have been more useful than yet another shop selling honey-cakes.

But…I like baking. Flour on my hands, the smell of bread rising – I’d take that over correcting someone’s spelling of “fish” any day.

Still, in a library at least you had to be quiet. I could have been spared the endless, mind-numbing prattle about the royal family and the (possible) unborn heir. In here, though, I got it in every direction. From the front tables, from the queue, even from people who only stopped in to warm their hands before wandering off again. And no matter how many times I tried to change the subject, it always found its way back to the Queen’s belly as if it were the only topic in existence.

Well, that and the general medieval fondness for turning any excuse into a potentially fatal sporting event.

The whole city is buzzing like a kicked beehive over the announcement of some big tournament. Jousting, melees, blood, sweat, broken bones – the usual way Westeros celebrates a royal baby who hasn’t even arrived yet. Much less confirmed to have the correct number of limbs, let alone the correct set of bits.

For all they know, it could be twins, or an unusually large potato, and here they are already sharpening swords and polishing armor.

But sure, let’s throw lances at each other about it and invite every half-drunk noble with more pride than skill to come batter one another senseless while the smallfolk bet their last coppers on who falls off a horse first. It’s practically a city-wide holiday, if your idea of a holiday involves splintered wood, mud, and the faint smell of concussion.

“Course it’s a boy,” said the fishmonger, slapping down a basket of limp eels like they personally confirmed the heir’s anatomy. The smell alone nearly knocked me into next week. I really hoped he didn’t plan to pay with those. I didn’t even know how to cook eel, nor did I have the desire to find out. “No way the gods would curse the realm with another girl.”

I smiled politely while slicing a loaf in half so viciously it nearly counted as a threat. If I’d leaned any harder on the knife, it would’ve been considered premeditated. The patriarchy was alive, well, and thriving in Westeros – they watered it, sang to it, and probably gave it a spare room in the castle.

Misogynists, the lot of them, and all blissfully unaware that half their kingdoms were probably being run by the very women they dismissed.

He didn’t notice my expression, too busy arranging the eels on my counter like they were some kind of gift. I made a mental note to burn the breadboard later. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this exact line today, either – apparently, in the local mind, a male heir was the only thing standing between the realm and certain doom. Funny how they never said that when the realm was being saved by a woman.

It was also a known fact – or rather, an aggressively whispered rumor – that the Rogue Prince might be returning soon. The King’s brother. The one people only talk about like he’s a ghost story, even when they’re certain he’s not in earshot. The current heir, who could find himself booted further down the line of succession should the royal infant arrive with their bits on the outside instead of tucked neatly in. That one.

Every time someone mentions him, the conversation is immediately followed by either a quick prayer or a sudden and intense discussion about the weather, as if merely mentioning might summon him in a puff of smoke and bad decisions. The way they talk, you’d think he was half man, half calamity, and entirely allergic to stability. Personally, I don’t see the appeal.

Anyone whose nickname includes the word ‘Rogue’ is probably exhausting at best and a walking fire hazard at worst.

I already have one of those perched on my bookshelf knocking over jam jars, shedding glitter-sized scales, and judging the pastries with the kind of disapproval usually reserved for war crimes. I don’t need another one – especially not one with a sword, a temper, and a laundry list of entitlement issues.

If the city really is about to play host to him, I’ll be doubling the batch of lemon tarts, because I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of stress baking to get through it.

This morning alone I’d overheard three different customers spinning stories about him over cups of honeyed tea. One swore he once cut down a man for stepping on his shadow. Another insisted he owned a ship crewed entirely by women who could kill a man with their bare hands. The third claimed he kept a dragon the size of a city square and named it after some long-dead queen he may or may not have seduced.

Every single one of them lowered their voices like they were afraid the walls might be listening, and every single one of them seemed thrilled by the danger of it all.

Me? I just pictured the mess he’d make of my café if he ever set foot inside. And the more I thought about it, the more I started to mentally calculate how many pies I could weaponize in under a minute.

Speaking of overdramatic displays of dominance, Zeezee hissed at the pigeon on the windowsill like it had personally insulted her lineage and threatened to duel her at dawn.

The poor bird froze mid-peck, staring back at her with the blank, beady eyes of something too stupid to realize it was in mortal peril. She gave it another warning hiss for good measure, then turned away with a prim flick of her tail to saunter up my arm and curl against my neck.

“I will not fight a pigeon for you,” I told her, tearing a corner off a warm scone and popping it into my mouth. “You are five years old. Start acting like it.”

She snorted – a smug, satisfied little sound – and flicked her tail directly into my ear like a whip before taking flight, crashing onto a nearby shelf and knocking something off of it. It sounded like a book…I hoped it was book.

The bell above the door chimed, a clear, bright note that always made me straighten a little behind the counter. A Goldcloak stepped inside, shoulders hunched against the damp air. Not one of my regulars, which immediately set off the little mental list I keep for moments like this: one, trouble; two, someone looking for gossip with their cinnamon twist; or three, both.

He stopped just past the threshold, eyes snagging on the bookshelf where Zeezee now sat in full gargoyle mode, smoke drifting lazily from her nostrils. The man’s jaw twitched, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword like he couldn’t decide whether to bow or bolt.

“Sit where you like, darling,” I said with a grin that was all polite with a bit of teeth. “Don’t touch the dragon.”

His gaze darted between me and Zeezee like he thought one of us might lunge first. Smart man. I’d give him until the coffee finished dripping before deciding if he was worth the trouble.

Chapter Text

The Goldcloak didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, like I’d just handed him a sleeping baby and a live sword, he tiptoed to the corner table – the one under the crooked shelf where Zeezee occasionally liked to drop things just to watch them bounce.

Bold choice.

I brought him a mug of something warm and dark and vaguely intimidating, the kind of brew that made strong men rethink their life choices. He didn’t ask what it was. Smart man.

“You’re new,” I said, setting it down without spilling a drop. “I’d remember that mustache.”

He opened his mouth, possibly to defend the mustache’s honor, then seemed to think better of it. “Heard good things,” he muttered.

“About the pastries or the dragon?”

He blinked, brow furrowing like he wasn’t sure if he was being tested. “Yes.”

I smirked. He took a sip. Then blinked again like the drink had just committed a personal crime against him.

“Bit strong?”

“No, no,” he coughed into his glove. “Just wasn’t expecting…flavor.”

“Ah, your first good drink,” I patted his shoulder like I was consoling a grieving widow. “It’s like finding religion, only it wakes you up faster and judges you before breakfast.”

By midmorning, the place was full of regulars and not-quite-regulars pretending they hadn’t stopped by just to hear the latest rumors disguised as polite conversation. The air was thick with the mingled scents of cinnamon, yeast, and gossip. Half the city was holding its breath, waiting to see if the Queen’s belly popped out a prince or disappointment.

The other half was whispering about the Rogue Prince – who the King might kill, kiss, or crown next. Depending on which table you eavesdropped at, he was either sailing home draped in silks and victory or being smuggled back under cover of darkness with more enemies than friends.

Zeezee, curled on her perch above the bread rack, listened like she was memorizing every word for later. Probably so she could weaponize it against me at the worst possible time.

The tension outside was thick enough to butter toast with – and probably just as greasy. In here, though, the only things burning were Zeezee’s temper and the top layer of the caramel pies. The former could be soothed with a sugar cube and a scratch under her chin. The latter…well, that was just part of my signature “golden” finish.

Still, I couldn’t ignore the way the crowd was shifting lately. If my little shop kept attracting this much attention, I was going to have to start thinking about expanding. Maybe set up a couple of tables in the alley – nothing fancy, just enough space for people to spill their gossip without blocking the doorway. Trouble was, the alley had its own ecosystem of cats, questionable puddles, and one very opinionated beggar who judged the free pastries I gave him like I was competing in some sort of baking competition. According to him, I was a solid four out of ten. Everyone else was a one though, so that had to count for something…right?

The slight notice-me-not charm I’d placed on the place was enough to keep people from staring too long or asking too many questions about the architecture. But a magical expansion? That would be like painting “I’m a witch, please investigate me” on the front window. And that was before considering how the city guard might react to watching my walls quietly breathe outward one morning.

I made my rounds while wondering how a medieval kingdom dealt with witches. Burning was so last century. But I have heard beheadings were on all on the rage.

Old Harwin – who’s not actually old, just bald and inclined to squint at anything smaller than a loaf of bread – was telling everyone the King had sent ravens to Dragonstone. He said it like he’d personally seen the raven take off from the Red Keep, maybe even given it a farewell pat. He hadn’t. The man can’t even see the price sign above the counter, and it’s written in letters the size of my forearm.

Brynna and Merra were hunched at their usual table by the hearth, the one that always smelled faintly of singed wool. They were pretending to mend something – possibly a sock, possibly a rag – while gossiping so quickly I could only catch every third word. Today’s highlights included: ‘crowns,’ ‘brothels,’ and ‘illegitimate,’ which in this city could all be part of the same story.

I made a mental note to top up their tea before they worked themselves into a scandal big enough to start throwing embroidery scissors.

Behind the counter, Zeezee had claimed the sugar bin again, her tiny claws twitching in sleep as though she were chasing something in a dream. I didn’t even try to move her. She only bites if you startle her awake – and only badly if you do it twice. The bin was probably warm from the day’s baking, and the smell of sugar always made her purr. I’d just have to hope no one needed to sweeten their tea for the next hour, unless they fancied it with a garnish of dragon scale and mild hostility.

The bell chimed again.

Three more Goldcloaks shuffled in, all wearing the same ‘we’re totally on official business’ expression while clearly just here for the honey cakes. They pretended to be on break, scanning the room like someone might leap up and accuse them of having a sweet tooth. The mustached Goldcloak in the corner sheepishly held his teacup up as one of the new ones smiled and shook his head.

“New tournament posters are going up,” one muttered when he made it to the counter and removed his helmet.

“Oh?” I asked, focused on my kneading. “What’s the prize? A title? A bag of gold? A clean conscience?”

When I looked up, I realized it was Young Harwin – not related to Old Harwin, unless baldness skipped a few generations and took vision with it. I smiled and slid a small biscuit his way as he leaned in, glancing around like a man about to share state secrets. He needn’t have bothered – my shop wasn’t that big – but the other customers were at least polite enough to pretend they weren’t hanging on every word.

Brynna and Merra even had the decency to lower their voices, though I caught the unmistakable clink of embroidery scissors hitting the table in anticipation.

“Maybe the winner gets to name the baby,” he grunted, amused.

“Right,” I snorted. “Because nothing says stable monarchy like letting a man with a lance and a concussion name the next heir.”

The Goldcloaks laughed, a bit too loud. One of them slapped the counter for emphasis, which earned him a sharp glare from Zeezee, who didn’t appreciate sudden noises in her domain. She let out a slow, smoky hiss that had the immediate effect of quieting all three men.

“That’s her ‘don’t push it’ face,” I said, tearing off a piece of dough and shaping it into a roll. “Trust me, you don’t want to see her escalate.”

They nodded, but were still smiling softly, probably grateful for the distraction from whatever was simmering outside.

And honestly? So was I.

Because if I think too hard about how I got here – how I went from being hunted in my own world, sprinting through shadows with my wand clenched so tight it left marks in my palm, to serving scones to armored men gossiping about dragon princes – I start to feel that old, sharp ache again.

The one that feels like the shape of Hogwarts corridors at night, when the torches burned low and every footstep echoed with a memory. The one that tastes like ash and feathers, like the air after a duel, like the smoke that still sometimes curls through my dreams.

It sits in my chest, not quite grief, not quite longing, but the kind of ache you can’t heal – only learn to carry.

So, I do what I’ve learned to do best…roll the dough, let the warmth of the ovens press into my bones, refill the mugs and the fancy teacups the more manly men pretended not to like. I keep my smile just sharp enough to make them wonder if I’m teasing them or warning them. Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure myself.

It’s a strange kind of peace. Not the grand, sweeping sort people write songs about, but the quiet, practical kind you can stack neatly on a shelf and trust to still be there in the morning.

But it’s mine.

And until someone from the royal family walks in and demands a cup of coffee – and inevitably ruins it – I plan to keep it.

Chapter Text

The day started like most of my days do – with Zeezee perched on my head like an aggressively judgmental hat and the smell of cinnamon rolls seeping into every fiber of my clothing. The oven was humming, the dough was rising, and the street outside was still in that rare morning lull before the city remembered to be loud.

I was halfway through kneading a particularly stubborn batch of dough when the bell over the door chimed, sharp and bright in the quiet. I looked up expecting a customer – maybe a bleary-eyed guard in search of caffeine or one of the regulars looking for their morning gossip fix.

Instead, I got three.

Not customers, mind you. Bakers. Or at least, that’s what they looked like to me – all aprons and flour smudges and the faint, unmistakable smell of yeast clinging to their clothes. And they looked very angry. Not ‘someone burned the bottom of the bread’ angry. More ‘we’ve been talking about you for a week and now we’ve come to settle it’ angry.

I recognized the one in front from a stall near the fish market – thick forearms from years of kneading, permanent flour dust ground so deep into his apron it had become part of the fabric, and a scowl that could curdle milk in under a minute. His eyes swept over the shop like he was sizing it up for a fight, or possibly a robbery.

The two behind him were wiry, apron-strapped types who had the jumpy, restless posture of men more accustomed to lifting sacks of grain than lifting conversations. They weren’t glaring quite as hard as the leader, but their eyes flicked between me, the ovens, and the display case in a way that said they hadn’t come for coffee and a chat. More likely, they’d been dragged along for muscle – or moral support in case I decided to throw a rolling pin.

I had one on hand just in case.

Zeezee, still on my head, tilted her own as if assessing whether this was a threat worth singeing. Judging by the curl of smoke that slipped from her nostrils, she’d already decided yes.

“You the one they call the Oven Witch?” the lead baker demanded, planting himself in front of my counter like he was expecting me to cower or burst into flames.

“Sorry, I’m not looking to hire at the moment,” I said without missing a beat, dusting flour off my hands and giving him my best customer-service smile – the one that said I could be polite or dangerous, depending on how my morning went.

“You mocking me, woman?” he snapped, pounding a fist on my countertop. A light puff of powdered sugar exploded into the air like festive confetti, effectively murdering whatever intimidation he was going for. All I could think was that he’d just seasoned his knuckles.

“Your prices are undercutting every honest baker in this city! You’re driving us out of business.”

I blinked at him, slow and deliberate. “Me? You realize I’m tucked behind the Street of Silk, right? Your customers would have to get lost, ignore the brothels, dodge the drunks, and wander through a suspicious alley that smells like questionable life choices just to find me. And if they do find me, they’ve probably earned a discount.”

One of the wiry ones piped up. “Word travels.”

“Not fast enough to get bread out of your ovens before it burns, apparently,” I said sweetly, and the one on the left turned a shade redder than raspberry jam. I’d heard the complaints from the customers. About how the other bakers charge a full silver stag for a burnt loaf while I charge three coppers for perfectly baked bread larger than theirs. “If your customers are going so far out of their way to come to me instead of you, that says more about you than me, doesn’t it?”

“It’s your absurd prices that are stealing our customers,” the lead baker jabbed a finger at me like he thought he was delivering the final blow. “You can’t just sell for half what everyone else charges. People will start expecting it from all of us.”

I tilted my head. “Ah, yes, the great tragedy of affordable bread. Next thing you know, the masses will start expecting clean water and reasonable rent.”

Zeezee glided from my head to land on the counter, and chose that exact moment to yawn, exhaling a delicate puff of smoke that curled lazily toward the man’s hand like a warning. He snatched it back so fast you’d think I’d tried to stab it with a fork or something.

“Here’s the thing,” I said, stepping around the counter with the kind of slow, measured pace that makes people second-guess their life choices. “My ingredients? Don’t cost me much. My rent? Doesn’t exist. And the staff,” I pointed to Zeezee, who was now licking her claws like she was preparing for a light snack, “works for scones and the occasional live pigeon. I can afford to keep my prices where they are because I’m not playing the same game you are.” I leaned in just enough to make him blink. “And I’m certainly not raising them just so you can feel better about yours.”

“That’s not fair,” he growled, trying to sound dangerous but mostly sounding like a man who’d stubbed his toe.

“Neither is the fact that half your bread tastes like it was baked in a coal bin and stored under a fish stall, but here we are.” I straightened up, plastering on a pleasant smile. “Life’s not fair. But at least in my bakery, it’s edible.”

One of the wiry ones coughed, probably to hide a laugh, and the lead baker shot him a glare so sharp I’m surprised it didn’t slice the air in half. Zeezee, meanwhile, had inched forward on the counter, her tail twitching in a way that suggested she was just waiting for me to give the go-ahead to unleash chaos.

The other shifted uncomfortably, glancing between me and his fearless leader like he wasn’t sure whether to back him up or bolt for the door. The lead baker’s face turned the color of an overripe tomato – the kind you only find in the back of a cart when the merchant swears they’re ‘still good.’ His jaw clenched, shoulders tensing, and for a second I thought he might actually lunge at me.

It would have been both stupid and entertaining…like watching someone try to wrestle a lit oven.

But then the doorbell chimed, sharp and bright, and in stepped my second-favorite Goldcloak, Captain Lorent. The man who once tried to bribe me with a goat to cater his meetings, on the very reasonable grounds that “goats are worth more than coin in some circles.”

Lorent took one look at the scene – me glaring up at a mountain of a man, the lead baker poised somewhere between rage and regret, and Zeezee crouched low and smoldering like she was ready to make toast out of someone’s eyebrows.

“Ah,” he said cheerfully, striding inside as if he hadn’t just walked into a potential bakery brawl. “I see you’re busy, Oven Witch. Shall I come back after the duel?”

The lead baker straightened, suddenly very aware that the captain’s hand was resting casually on his sword hilt. “We were just leaving,” he muttered.

“Were you?” Lorent asked mildly, strolling up to the counter like he owned the place and swiping a still-warm roll from the cooling rack without breaking stride. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were about to make a terrible decision. And I’m only halfway through my morning paperwork, so if you could refrain from doing anything that would require me to write arrest reports, I’d be grateful.”

I smiled sweetly – the kind of sweet that could rot teeth. “You heard the captain. Go home, make some bread, and maybe try not to bake it until it’s one shade away from charcoal this time.”

The lead baker’s backup dancers shuffled toward the door without a word, apparently deciding they were more ‘silent retreat’ types than ‘fight to the death’ types. The lead baker lingered just long enough to look like he might spit on the floor, then thought better of it – probably noticing Zeezee’s tail flicking in that rapid, irritable way that promised scorched fingers if he pushed his luck.

Instead, he muttered something about “the Bakers Guild will hear about this” and stormed to the door, his entourage scrambling after him like ducklings chasing an especially angry mother hen. It had almost been a perfect Malfoy representation, if Malfoy had been dark haired, balding, and borderline obese that is.

Although…this was the first I’d heard about a Bakers’ Guild. Was there a Bakers’ Guild? Was I supposed to have joined it? Did they send out welcome baskets? More importantly – did I even want to?

From the look of those three, membership came with a free stick lodged somewhere deeply inconvenient and a lifetime subscription to Unpleasant Expressions Monthly.

The bell over the door gave a cheerful little jingle as they left, which somehow made the whole scene even more ridiculous – like the shop itself was politely mocking them on the way out. I was half-tempted to hang a sign over the door that read Exit Dramatically Here just for moments like this.

Lorent took another bite of his stolen roll and gave me a look. “You do realize you just declared war on half the bakers in the city.”

“Good,” I said, pouring him a coffee. “I’ve been meaning to test my new pie catapult.”

Lorent leaned an elbow on the counter, biting into the roll. “You know, my goat offer still stands.”

“Lorent,” I said, pouring him coffee, “if you bring me a goat, I’m sending it to your house and telling the neighbors it’s your new wife.”

He chuckled. “Harsh.”

“Practical,” I corrected. “I don’t have room for a goat, and I’m not starting a petting zoo.”

I went back behind the counter, brushing the sugar off my hands in a lazy sweep, and pulled a tray of fresh buns from the oven. Steam curled up in rich, golden ribbons, carrying the scent of honey and warm bread through the room. The kind of smell that made people close their eyes for a second, like maybe the world wasn’t entirely terrible.

Zeezee, perched on the counter now, flicked her tail in approval and stretched so that one wingtip just happened to knock over the empty tip jar.

He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes glinting. “What about chickens?”

Chapter Text

Aemma had not intended to return. Not today. Not this soon. Not again.

And yet, her feet seemed to have decided for her, carrying her down the narrow, uneven path toward the little bakery with the yellow shutters and the gold-lettered sign as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The Countess & The Cup.

The name alone still coaxed a smile from her – small, private, the kind that belonged more to memory than to the present moment. It was such a strange, charming name for a place in King’s Landing, where most shop signs promised something practical, plain, or pointedly self-important. This one sounded like it belonged to a storybook, perhaps one her mother might have read to her by the fire in those brief, rare years before duty had swallowed her whole.

Serene, ever discreet, kept close at her side. Her eyes swept the street with the calm, measured detachment of a woman trained to see without staring, to notice without drawing notice. Silence and secrets were Serene’s true weapons – and she wielded them with more skill than any blade.

Ser Calder followed a pace behind, sharp-eyed and stiffer than usual. His hand hovered, as it always did, within easy reach of his sword. Even so, he had relaxed somewhat since their last visit here. Perhaps the cozy scent of warm bread was not an enemy one could keep their guard against for long.

Aemma rested a gloved hand on her belly as they approached. She was showing now. More than just slightly. The weight of it shifted her posture, altered her gait – reminded her, with every step, that the eyes of the realm were fixed firmly on her womb. Whispers trailed her everywhere about the swell of her middle, the way she carried herself, the way she carried.

But she had not come for politics. Not for gossip. Not for the careful court smiles and thinly veiled questions about whether she was certain she’d been feeling the child move. And not for the cinnamon-sugar knots – though Serene had tried (and failed) to replicate them in the palace kitchens – that had lodged themselves firmly in her cravings.

She had come because she wanted to. Because, in a city where every choice she made was weighed, measured, and judged, this was one of the rare few she could make without permission.

The shop was warm and busy but not full, as though it always knew precisely how many patrons it could comfortably hold. Conversation drifted lazily from table to table, never loud enough to intrude, never so hushed it felt secretive. The air itself seemed to hum with a quiet, lived-in contentment.

The same clean scent greeted her at the door – sugar and citrus, bright enough to lift the spirit, underpinned by something faintly herbal, like lemon balm and rosemary left to dry in sunlight. It was a fragrance that lingered, soft and persistent, clinging to her gloves and the edge of her cloak long after she left.

Zeezee was on the counter today, a speckled little monarch holding court atop the polished wood. Her tail curled neatly around her haunches, wings tucked so tightly they seemed carved in place, a single unblinking eye tracking Aemma’s entrance with the slow precision of a hunting hawk…or perhaps a particularly judgmental statue.

A speck of flour dusted her beaked nose, making her look – impossibly – both ridiculous and mildly terrifying, as though she might pass judgment and then set you on fire for good measure.

Aemma smiled at her.

“She’s very alert today,” Serene murmured beside her, tone neutral but her gaze sharp.

“She knows I’m watching her.” Aemma stepped toward the counter, the low murmur of voices fading just enough to make the moment feel private. She leaned slightly in, her voice soft enough for only the dragon to hear. “May I ask you something, little one?”

Zeezee blinked once, slow and deliberate.

Aemma took that as permission.

“Why the Second?” Aemma asked, tilting her head slightly toward the tiny dragon. “Am I to believe there was once a Countess Erszébet Báthory the First? Your mother, perhaps?”

The dragon chirped – not quite a trill, not quite a hiss – but the sound carried an oddly smug quality, as though she’d just won a very small, very personal argument.

From the corner, where she’d been drying her hands on a flour-dusted apron, the girl behind the counter laughed. It wasn’t a polite court laugh – too quick, too genuine, too unrestrained for that.

“She gets that question more often than you’d think,” Holly said, striding over with the kind of quick, confident gait that made it seem like she’d been born knowing how to own any room she stepped into. The flour-dusted apron tied at her waist did nothing to dull the impression; if anything, it made her look more in command, like a general in the middle of a victorious campaign.

She flicked a gesture toward a small table in the corner – bright yellow, its paint chipped and worn smooth where hands had rested over the years. Aemma and Serene took their seats, the wood warm beneath their palms, while Ser Calder stationed himself near the door in that unobtrusive-but-ready way only a seasoned guard could manage.

Somehow, the other patrons seemed to…not be ignoring them exactly, but rather so deeply folded into their own little worlds that the newcomers barely registered. Conversation flowed in quiet currents, the clink of spoons against cups, the soft thump of a hand kneading dough behind the counter, the hiss of steam from somewhere unseen.

Aemma kept her hood up out of habit, the soft fabric shadowing her features. But for the first time in weeks – months, perhaps – it seemed unnecessary. No lingering stares. No speculative whispers slipping into the edges of her hearing. No quick, darting glances to her belly followed by smiles too eager to be sincere.

It was…astounding.

And more than a little bit of a relief. The absence of scrutiny felt almost unnatural at first, like stepping into a silent room after days of constant noise. She let her shoulders ease, her fingers unclenching from the edge of her cloak. For the first time in a long time, she could simply be – not a queen, not a vessel for an heir, but a woman sitting in a warm room with the scent of citrus and spice curling in the air.

It felt like breathing after holding it too long.

As soon as she was settled, two teacups appeared in front of them, filled with something dark and fragrant. Aemma caught a whiff of spice before the steam curled away – cinnamon, clove, and something else that teased at her memory but stayed just out of reach.

Holly dropped into the chair opposite them without so much as asking, folding her hands on the table like they were old friends catching up after too long. “There are two stories,” she said. “Depends which one you want.”

Aemma raised a brow, curiosity pricking despite herself. The tea was hot against her lips, the flavor sharper than expected with a warm, lingering bite that seemed to bloom across her tongue. It was the sort of drink that could banish a chill or a hesitation, though it left behind a trace of something a touch dangerous.

When she looked back up, Holly was watching her with that same half-smile – mischievous, unreadable, and just a little bit like she already knew which story Aemma would choose.

Chapter Text

There’s always two stories. Always.

I leaned back in my chair, kicked my feet up on the edge of the stool, and popped a candied almond into my mouth. The sugar crunched pleasantly between my teeth, just sweet enough to coat the bite I was about to deliver. Zeezee was curled on the windowsill behind me, her tail flicking in that slow, deliberate rhythm she used when she was sizing someone up. She stared at the woman across from us like she was deciding whether or not the effort of hissing would be worth it.

She wasn’t.

But the way the woman looked at me – head tilted, eyes sharp but careful – told me she wasn’t leaving without an answer.

She’d asked why Zeezee was “the Second.” It was a fair question. Not many people noticed the ‘Second’ part unless they were paying attention, and fewer still had the nerve to ask about it.

“Right,” I said, brushing sugar from my apron and flicking it carelessly to the floor. “So here’s the thing. Title first.”

I tapped the table once, a quiet little punctuation mark.

“A Countess is a noble title. Lower than a royal, higher than most people. It’s land-based, not crown-based. A man’s a Count. A woman’s a Countess. You’ve got some power, usually a big castle, and enough coin to pretend you don’t want more. You answer to someone higher – like a king, or someone with an irritating title like paramount.”

Zeezee sneezed at that, a dainty little puff of smoke curling up from her nostrils. I took it as agreement.

“Now, the name.” I held up two fingers. “There are two very different versions of the story of Countess Erszébet Báthory. She lived about four or five hundred years ago – give or take – so nobody knows for sure which version is true anymore. You can pick which one you believe.”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice like we were about to trade state secrets, letting the clink of cups and the low murmur of the other patrons fade into the background.

“The first was a monster,” I began, letting the words hang for a moment. “They called her the Blood Countess. Said she bathed in the blood of girls to stay young. Lured them into her castle under the promise of work or patronage, and once the gates shut behind them…well. Torture, experiments, things you don’t tell over tea. Hundreds, maybe. All dead. All hidden. And for a while, she got away with it – because she was rich, and noble, and no one in power wants to accuse a Countess of murder unless they absolutely have to.”

Serene – the quiet one, the maid with eyes like still water – gave the faintest shiver, a twitch of movement so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking.

“Eventually,” I went on, leaning back in my chair, “they came for her. Not with a trial, not with polite accusations, but with bricks. They locked her in her own castle. Walled her up in a tower with nothing but the walls to talk to. No appeal. No verdict. Just…silence.”

I let that silence settle over the table, feeling the weight of it in the space between us.

“Zeezee finds that one funny,” I added, breaking it with a half-smirk.

The dragon blinked slowly, smug as a cat that’s eaten something it wasn’t supposed to and gotten away with it.

“But then…” I leaned forward again, resting my forearms on the table. My voice lost some of its edge, the words softening almost despite myself. “Then there’s the second story,” I said, my tone shifting, letting some of the bite drain away.

“In this one, she wasn’t a monster. She was a widow. Young. Wealthy. No sons or daughters to inherit. Her husband died suddenly – no war, no sickness anyone could point to – just gone. And there she was, alone, left to run her estate and her people. She owned land the crown wanted. And the crown owed her family a lot of gold.”

I held up my thumb and forefinger just barely apart. “And I don’t mean a little. I mean an absurd, grotesque, kingdom-toppling amount of gold. Gold the crown needed. Gold they couldn’t pay back…or wouldn’t, at least. But she wouldn’t remarry the man they wanted her to. Wouldn’t hand over her properties so some puffed-up lord could ‘manage’ them better.” I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice as though the crown might somehow be listening.

“And unfortunately for them, she was very, very good at it – better than they were. She kept her people fed, her roads maintained, her soldiers loyal.”

I let the moment linger before continuing. “So…they turned on her. Spread stories. Named her things no one wants to be called. Whispers that curdle into rumors, rumors that fester into truth in the minds of people who want to believe them. Accused her of impossible horrors. And when it was all over – after her servants were tortured, flayed, mutilated, and murdered to force them to say what the crown needed them to say – she was bricked into a single room of her own castle. Left to rot. While the crown ‘redistributed’ her properties and quietly took every last coin she had.”

I sat back, the chair legs creaking. “And that was that. All wrapped up. Neat as a pie crust.”

Zeezee’s tail twitched once, a small, sharp movement.

I shrugged. “It’s been so long that nobody knows which one is true. History’s weird like that – the truth’s usually whatever the people with the loudest voices decide to write down.”

The woman – still nameless, still watching me like she was peeling back layers I didn’t particularly want peeled – said nothing. Her gaze was steady, weighing my words, my tone, maybe even the pauses between them.

“So,” I said at last, lifting my cup in a slow, deliberate motion, letting the steam curl up between us, “either Zeezee’s named after a vicious killer who murdered for vanity…or a woman who got punished for being too rich, too young, and far too competent for the men around her to stomach.”

Zeezee chose that exact moment to yawn, a slow, lazy display of far too many tiny, razor-edged teeth. The sound was almost cute – the sight, considerably less so.

I leaned back, watching the woman over the rim of my cup. “Either way,” I added, letting a grin curl at the edges of my mouth, “she earned the title.”

The dragon flicked her tail in a satisfied little twitch, like she agreed. The woman’s eyes dropped briefly to Zeezee, then back to me, something unreadable flickering there before settling into careful neutrality.

Which, frankly, was fine. I’d given her both stories. The fact that she’d walked into my shop at all meant she was going to leave with questions – and if she was smart, she’d leave with more than she came in with.

I drained the last of my tea and set the cup aside, letting the heat from it fade into my palms. Zeezee gave a little sigh and curled tighter on the windowsill, her tail draping lazily over the edge. Outside, the city could keep its noise and its gossip.

In here, there was tea, warm bread, and just enough quiet to make the world feel small again.

Chapter Text

She said her name was Aemma. Just…Aemma.

No House, no title, not even a surname to weigh it down.

And she looked right at me when she said it – not in that casual, passing way people give their names when they don’t care if you remember, but like she was waiting for something. A reaction, a flinch, a pause. Like the name should’ve meant something to me, should’ve stirred some recognition or deference or carefully schooled expression.

She looked how I imagined I used to look when I still introduced myself as Holly Potter, The-Girl-Who-Lived –  waiting for the flicker of shock, the recognition, the awkward gratitude no one knew quite how to deliver.

But her name meant nothing to me. So, I didn’t give her anything but a small, polite smile as I reached for the pot and offered her a refill on her tea and a generous slice of almond tart.

I think that disappointed her. Not much – just the faintest tightening at the corner of her mouth before she smoothed it away – but I noticed.

People in this city are funny about names. Always watching your face when they say theirs, like it’s some kind of test. Like the right twitch or gasp will slot them neatly into your personal hierarchy of Important People.

I don’t have one of those. My hierarchy is much simpler. People who pay in coin. People who pay in gossip. And people who ask if Zeezee is for sale (who are immediately and permanently banned).

And that’s about it. Titles don’t buy you coffee in this shop.

Aemma hadn’t flinched at the dragon, or the pastries, or the story I told about blood and power and bricks. She’d just…listened. Pale, yes – drawn in that way that comes from either grief or too many sleepless nights strung together like bad pearls – but steady. She didn’t press her lips and murmur about feeling unwell, didn’t excuse herself, didn’t even reach for the kind of polite deflection people use when they don’t want you looking too closely.

Still, I saw it.

The way her fingers trembled ever so slightly when she reached for her cup, as though it took conscious effort to keep it steady. The too-careful way she shifted in her chair, moving like every angle of her body had to be thought through before she committed to it. The faint tightness around her mouth, like every breath was something she had to measure before she took it.

She didn’t ask for help.

But I’ve gotten good at noticing the things people don’t say – the shadows that slips between words, the weight in a pause, the things that sit just outside the story they’re telling you. Years of learning when to run, when to stay quiet, when to step in without making it look like you were stepping in.

After they left – her, the quiet maid, and the twitchy guard with the permanent crease between his brows – I cleared their table. The tea was gone, the almond tart only crumbs. Zeezee got the last sweet scraps, delicately plucked from my fingers before retreating to her windowsill perch to watch the street.

Once all the customers had departed, I turned the sign, slid the bolt, and locked the front door with a flick of my wand behind my back. Not for secrecy. Just habit. Magic feels like muscle memory now – something you do without thinking, the way some people straighten chairs or wipe down a counter before closing.

Outside, the noise of the city rolled on. Inside, the air was warm, quiet, and scented faintly of citrus and spice – like the world had been neatly reduced to something I could hold in both hands.

And then I went to the pantry.

Well. The pantry.

I stood in front of the old wooden door – the one that should’ve opened onto a cramped shelf of flour sacks, jars of jam, and bundles of drying herbs – and slid the key from the chain around my neck. The brass was warm against my fingers, the edges worn smooth from years of turning in locks that didn’t belong to this world.

The Room doesn’t always like me.

Which is rude, really, considering how much of my life I’ve lost because of it. I don’t hold grudges often, but when I do, they’re usually magical and sentient.

Still, I turned the key in the lock and whispered, “Something gentle, yeah? Something to help. She looked like she was bleeding from the inside out.”

The door didn’t open. Not right away.

I sighed, resting my forehead against the frame, letting the cool wood ground me. “Not for me, alright? I’m fine. This isn’t about me. You can be weird about that later. Right now, I’m asking for someone else.”

For a moment there was nothing. Then a subtle shift – a weight lifting, the faintest rustle of movement in the walls, like something inside had just exhaled.

The latch clicked.

The door creaked open, but it wasn’t the pantry I knew. No shelves, no sacks of flour, no neat rows of root vegetables in wicker baskets. Instead, a stone pedestal stood in the center of a candlelit room that hadn’t existed five seconds ago. Shadows clung to the corners, retreating reluctantly from the soft, flickering light.

On the pedestal rested a single glass vial, the liquid inside swirling with slow, deliberate spirals of amber shot through with gold. Beside it lay a leather-bound book so old its cover looked scorched shut, the edges charred and brittle as though it had survived a fire no one had put out in time.

The air smelled faintly of smoke and honey. And, though the Room was silent, I could feel it watching me.

The Room didn’t offer explanations. It never did. It just gave you what it thought you needed and left you to puzzle out whether that was a blessing, a curse, or some unholy combination of both. You could ask, you could beg, you could try bargaining with it – none of it mattered.

The Room made the final call.

I stepped inside, the candles guttering slightly in my wake, and took the vial carefully, cradling it like it might vanish if I held it too tightly. The amber liquid caught the light and shimmered faintly, as though something alive moved inside it. I stared at the book next, its scorched cover and brittle edges radiating the kind of ominous history you could smell.

“Please don’t be cursed,” I muttered, tucking it under my arm anyway. If the Room had gone to the trouble of coughing it up, it probably wanted me to use it – which, frankly, was not a comforting thought.

Zeezee sat in the hallway, tail curled neatly around her claws, watching me with one unblinking eye. She didn’t follow me in. She never did.

Smart girl.

I didn’t know if I’d see Aemma again. People in Kings Landing drift in and out of my life like smoke – sometimes they curl back, sometimes they vanish for good. But I’d noticed the shadows under her eyes, the strain in her posture, the pain she was too polite to name. And the way she’d watched Zeezee – not like a curiosity or a danger, but with the calm recognition of someone who understood exactly what a dragon was and had no intention of flinching from one.

I didn’t know her story, but if she came back, I’d be ready.

And if she didn’t…well, people who needed to walk through my door always found their way here.

Chapter Text

The capital smelled the same as it always did – salt, smoke, and too many bodies crammed into too little space. The scent clung to skin and fabric alike, impossible to wash out completely, a reminder that King’s Landing never truly let go of you once you set foot inside it.

Rhaenys had barely been in the city a day before her children were clamoring for the tourney grounds, eager to see the preparations. They spoke over one another, their voices bright with the untempered joy of youth, speculating about the size of the pavilions, the armor, the color of the tilts. She let them chatter, smiling where appropriate, nodding when expected – but her mind was elsewhere.

Corlys was already buried somewhere in the Red Keep, entangled in council meetings, smoothing feathers and planting seeds in equal measure. The tournament for the coming royal heir was already swallowing the city whole. Its promise of blood and spectacle drawing in lords, knights, and opportunists from across the realm. And Rhaenys intended to make the most of it – politically, and otherwise.

It had been years since she’d walked the streets this close to the Keep, and they had changed little. The main thoroughfare was loud and bright, banners in every color snapping above the crowd, but just beyond its edges the city kept its older truths: crooked alleys, shadowed doorways, and faces that watched without expression.

Goldcloaks lounged at street corners as though they owned the place, their eyes moving slower than their hands. Merchants called from behind laden stalls, their voices a constant clamor, each trying to outshout the next. And beneath it all, the summer heat pressed close and heavy, dampening skin and souring tempers.

The children wanted sweets. She obliged them, pausing at a candied almond vendor whose copper pot steamed faintly in the late sun. Their laughter as they bit into the sugared nuts was bright enough to draw a few curious glances, but her own gaze never stopped moving. King’s Landing had a way of slipping daggers into the ribs of the unwary, and she had never been one to give it the opportunity.

By evening, the Red Keep’s corridors felt close and airless despite the sea breeze brushing through the high windows. Torches hissed in their sconces, their smoke curling upward into dim vaults. Servants passed in hurried lines, balancing trays and scrolls, their steps slowing and bows deepening when they realized who she was. Rhaenys acknowledged each with a brief nod, her stride never faltering as she made for her chambers.

That was when she saw her.

Across the courtyard, moving with a swiftness that betrayed both urgency and the hope of not being noticed was the Queen.

Her cousin, Aemma. The one person Rhaenys had most wanted to visit with since arriving, yet had been politely but firmly denied all day under the excuse of her “condition” – Viserys’ word, not hers. The king had a way of isolating his wife every time she carried, cloaking it in concern but making it feel more like confinement. Rhaenys despised it.

And while Aemma did look very pregnant – even from across the courtyard the swell was impossible to miss – she didn’t seem to let it slow her. Her steps were careful but quick, her chin slightly lowered as if to cut through the air unseen.

She was draped in a modest gown the color of soft cream, a darker cloak with the hood pulled low shadowing her features. Two figures kept pace behind her. A woman whose bearing and plain dress marked her as a handmaiden, and a tall, armed man who moved with the stiff precision of a sworn sword. Kingsguard, if Rhaenys’ eye for faces was right.

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes.

Queens did not sneak. They summoned. They ordered. They commanded. But they most certainly did not sneak.

She slipped into the corridor opposite the courtyard, her steps noiseless on the worn stone, matching Aemma’s pace from the shadows. The Queen never glanced her way; her attention was fixed outward, scanning the path before her as though expecting someone – or making certain no one was watching.

Aemma’s hand rested lightly against the curve of her belly, a small but constant brace. There was a deliberateness to her movement, the kind that comes from both caution and necessity. And unless Rhaenys was very much mistaken, there was far less strain in her cousin’s posture than the court’s careful whispers had led anyone to believe.

The Queen reached the final arch before the outer yard. That was when Rhaenys stepped from the shadowed passage into the light, her expression perfectly composed but her eyes alight with quiet challenge.

“Going somewhere, cousin?”

Aemma stopped like she’d been struck, the momentum in her step faltering just enough for her cloak to sway forward. The hood slipped back a fraction, catching on the soft edge of her hair, and Rhaenys caught a flash of her cousin’s wide eyes – surprise, not fear, though the difference between the two was often razor-thin in this court.

The question hung between them, sharp and unyielding. Rhaenys already knew she wouldn’t like whatever answer was about to follow.

“I have a craving,” Aemma blurted.

Of all the excuses that might have been offered – some delicate deflection about fresh air, a courtly obligation, even a political errand – that was not what Rhaenys had expected. Certainly not for why the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was standing in a side corridor, hood half-slipped, posture halfway between guilty and determined, looking like a girl caught with honey on her fingers.

Rhaenys arched a brow, her voice cool. “A craving.”

“Yes,” Aemma’s chin lifted, her voice even and deliberate, as though saying it with enough certainty might will it into sounding reasonable. “For something sweet. And…warm.”

Rhaenys let her gaze travel over her cousin, noting the pallor in her skin, the faint tightness at the corners of her mouth, and the way her hand never strayed far from the swell of her belly. But she also noticed something else – something she hadn’t seen in Aemma’s last pregnancies.

Her color, though pale, had more life to it. The dark hollows under her eyes were shallower. There was a certain steadiness in her carriage, a spark of presence that had been dulled before. She looked healthier than she had in a long while, though Rhaenys doubted that was something Viserys had noticed.

“So you’re sneaking out of the Red Keep for – what? A lemon cake?”

“Not lemon,” Aemma said quickly, almost too quickly. “Something else. I…know a place.”

The pause before know a place was brief, but it was enough to sharpen Rhaenys’ interest. This wasn’t about a sweet tooth. Not entirely. And if her cousin thought she was out of the Red Keep with only her maid and a single Kingsguard without raising eyebrows, she’d forgotten who she was dealing with.

Rhaenys stepped closer, a faint smile curving her lips. “Then it seems I’ll be coming along. I do enjoy…discovering places.”

Queens didn’t know places in the city. They had them brought to them on silver trays or whispered about in kitchens between servants who knew better than to be overheard. But Aemma’s voice…it held the faint, warm edge of someone who had been keeping a secret – and savoring it.

“And you couldn’t send a servant?” Rhaenys asked, keeping her tone mild though the question was anything but.

Aemma’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No. This is something I have to go for myself.”

Rhaenys folded her arms, weighing her cousin’s expression. Aemma didn’t look reckless – not the flushed, fever-bright recklessness she’d seen in other royals slipping away from duty –  but there was a resolve there, coiled and quiet. Whatever this errand was, it mattered. And Rhaenys had learned long ago that when a queen wanted something badly enough to risk being caught sneaking, it was worth knowing why.

“Very well,” she said at last, letting her arms drop in a show of surrender. “Lead on, cousin. But if this ends with me sitting on a lumpy stool in some fishmonger’s back room, I’m telling Corlys it was your idea.”

Aemma’s smile grew just a shade wider, the faintest glimmer of amusement lighting her features. She gestured to her guard – tall, silent, and visibly less comfortable with this than either of them. He stepped forward, unclasped his own cloak, and handed it over with a bow.

Rhaenys raised a brow but accepted it, the weight of it heavier than she expected, smelling faintly of sea air and oiled leather. The Targaryen features were…memorable, to say the least. Even with her hair coiled and pinned, she could be spotted from a hundred paces. A cloak was a smart precaution – even if she did wince when she settled the hood over her carefully done hair, feeling the pins shift ever so slightly.

“Come along, then,” she said, pulling the fabric closer. “Let’s see this place of yours.”

They slipped out together through a narrow stone passage that Rhaenys half-remembered from her girlhood. The walls were damp and cool to the touch, the air tinged faintly with the salt of the nearby sea.

But the moment they stepped beyond the keep, the air shifted – warmer, heavier, thick with the smells of the city. Fish brine from the docks, the greasy tang of tallow candles, woodsmoke curling from a hundred hearths…and something else. Something unexpected.

It was faint at first, tucked beneath the coarser scents, but it teased at her with every breath. Sweet, buttery, and threaded with spice. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? It didn’t belong to the streets she remembered.

They wound their way through narrower lanes where the noise of the main thoroughfare faded to a dull hum, the cobbles uneven beneath their feet. The scent grew stronger with every turn, so much so that Rhaenys found herself glancing sideways at her cousin.

“This isn’t Flea Bottom,” she said, suspicion and curiosity sharpening her tone.

“No,” Aemma replied, the faintest smile curling her lips. “Better.”

She didn’t elaborate, and Rhaenys didn’t press. Not yet. She’d learned that sometimes the quickest way to an answer was to wait until the other person wanted to give it.

The streets narrowed again, twisting in ways that only locals or those guided by them could navigate. When they finally turned into a crooked little alley, half-swallowed by the buildings leaning overhead, Rhaenys caught sight of the place. Yellow shutters bright even in the dim light, gold letters gleaming against black lacquered wood, and a name she’d never heard before painted in bold, curling script.

The Countess & The Cup.

The scent hit her in full then – sugar melting into butter, warm bread straight from the oven, and a whisper of something citrus-bright beneath it all. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

Chapter Text

It was late enough that I’d started stacking chairs, that golden half-hour when the air’s still warm from the ovens and the only sounds are the tick of cooling metal and Zeezee methodically chewing something she definitely shouldn’t be chewing.

I decided not to investigate.

The bell over the door jingled, and in walked trouble in a silk cloak. Aemma slipped inside, dropping her hood like a child tossing contraband behind their back. And this time, she wasn’t alone…well, alone outside her two friends that always accompanied her.

The woman at her side had the kind of presence that made you straighten your posture before your brain caught up. She had the same silver hair, only hers was swept up in an elaborate updo that probably required its own architectural blueprint. A face like it had been carved for coin, cheekbones sharp enough to cut filo pastry, and eyes that didn’t just look at you – they measured you, priced you, and decided whether you were worth the time.

“This is my cousin, Rhaenys,” Aemma said, turning to me like she expected the sort of reaction people give when they find a pearl in their oyster.

I gave her a smile instead. “Holly,” I introduced myself with a little wave. I doubted she wanted to shake hands when mine were still covered in flour. “Welcome to The Countess and The Cup.”

Rhaenys’s expression didn’t move so much as a muscle. The woman could probably win at cards by blinking once an hour.

Aemma’s mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh. Guess I was supposed to swoon, curtsy, or faint delicately onto the nearest fainting couch. Not my style.

Behind them, Serene and Ser Calder peeled off automatically, heading for a table near the window. The man gave the room his usual sweeping glance, like he was cataloging exits and estimating how many mugs he could use as weapons if things went badly. Only after a long moment did he finally relax enough to sit.

Serene, by contrast, exhaled like she’d just stepped into a spa, already reaching for the tea menu with the reverence of someone who’d been counting the hours until this moment.

Aemma, of course, drifted toward her usual table in the corner – the one with the best view of the room and the least draft from the door, positioned just so she could watch everyone without being in the way. She sank into the chair with a small, contented sigh, rubbing her belly like she’d been walking far more than her midwife would approve of.

A stool slid out near her feet. No fanfare, no scraping wood – it just appeared from under the table like it had been there all along. Aemma blinked, clearly startled for half a second before tucking her feet up on it with a small smile. She probably thought she’d just missed seeing it. Probably.

“You’re out late, love,” I said, balancing a tray in one hand and setting down a pot of her favorite blend without even bothering to ask.

“Thought I’d introduce my cousin,” Aemma replied, folding her hands neatly in her lap in a way that looked entirely too regal for someone sneaking around after dark. “She’s in city for the tourney.”

“Then I’m glad you came,” I said easily, setting a little plate of honey biscuits in front of her. “What can I get you both?”

Rhaenys didn’t answer right away. She was too busy letting her gaze sweep over the shop, cataloging the tables, the shelves, the mismatched chairs, and me – in that order. Her eyes moved with the kind of slow, deliberate weight that felt less like casual curiosity and more like an appraisal. And when her gaze landed on Zeezee – perched smugly on the counter with her tail curled protectively around a jar of candied ginger – her brows lifted just a fraction.

Zeezee, in turn, lifted her chin like she was accepting a compliment.

“You have a dragon,” Rhaenys said, in the same tone someone might use if they’d just found a cat in a bread oven – equal parts disbelief and vague admiration.

I followed her gaze. “Oh, that’s Zeezee. Don’t let the size fool you, she’s a menace. If she starts eyeing your earrings, guard them with your life. She’s got a thing for shiny things, and she’s faster than she looks.”

Zeezee snorted a delicate puff of smoke, which curled upward like punctuation to my statement.

“Zeezee,” Rhaenys repeated, and her mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close enough for someone who probably didn’t give them away freely.

“Short for Countess Erszébet Báthory the Second,” I explained, because titles matter, even for dragons the size of a teacup. “But she’s Zeezee to everyone who doesn’t feel like breaking a tooth on a name. Unless she’s in a mood. Then it’s the full title or she’ll set something on fire just to make a point.”

Aemma was smiling too, though hers was softer, more knowing. But she still had that expectant look – the kind you get when you’re waiting for someone to recognize the name you’ve just dropped. I met her eyes and gave her my most politely oblivious grin, like I’d just been handed a deck of cards I had no intention of playing.

Zeezee flicked her tail and looked between us like she knew something we didn’t – which, to be fair, she probably did.

Chapter Text

Aemma had barely lifted her cup before Rhaenys leaned forward, her voice pitched low but laced with that particular brand of Velaryon directness that meant she wasn’t here for the typical polite evasions she was used to in court.

“Well?” her cousin asked.

“Well…what?” Aemma replied, feigning innocence, though she knew perfectly well what was coming.

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed, shifting toward the counter where the girl – Holly – was polishing a row of already immaculate jars with a focus that felt almost suspicious. The dragon was perched beside her like some absurdly expensive paperweight, tail curling in slow, deliberate arcs, wings half-spread as though she knew she was being assessed and wanted to look her best for the inspection.

“That,” Rhaenys said simply, inclining her head toward the tiny creature. “And her.”

Aemma set her cup down with deliberate care. “The dragon’s name is Countess Erszébet Báthory the Second. And she’s not a baby.”

Rhaenys’s brows rose at the long winded name. “Not a baby?”

“She’s five years old,” Aemma explained, tone breezy, as though they were discussing garden blooms and not the blatant impossibility perched on the counter. “Apparently that’s full grown for her kind. A teacup dragon, Holly calls it.”

Rhaenys gave the sort of skeptical look that could peel paint off a ship’s hull – the kind that made lesser nobles backpedal before they even realized they’d said something foolish. “There’s no such thing.”

Aemma’s lips curved, the faintest edge of challenge in her voice. “And yet, there she is. I’ve been coming here for seven months, Rhaenys. Seven. And in all that time, that tiny little dragon hasn’t grown a single fraction of an inch. Besides,” her chin tilted toward the counter, “look at her. The horns, the wing shape, the set of her jaw. Those aren’t juvenile features.”

The so-called teacup dragon chose that moment to yawn, a lazy stretch of her maw that revealed a mouth full of needle-fine teeth, then resettled against a jar of sugared almonds like a queen taking her throne.

Holly reached over without looking, scratching idly under the dragon’s chin until it trilled with satisfaction – the sound more purr than roar, but carrying the same quiet authority. She didn’t glance up, didn’t join the conversation, but there was an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth. As if she knew this was the exact moment the argument had tipped in her favor…without her saying a single word.

Aemma knew she was listening – the subtle stillness in her movements, the slight tilt of her head. When the light caught Holly’s eyes just right, there was something there. Amusement, maybe. Besides, the shop wasn’t large enough to hide their words without the usual background chatter of other patrons.

“And the girl?” Rhaenys asked after a long moment, her tone light but her eyes fixed like a hawk’s.

Aemma traced the rim of her cup, letting her fingers circle the porcelain. “She runs this place. Alone, as far as I can tell. Bakes, serves, cleans. Always polite. Always…careful.”

“Careful,” Rhaenys repeated, as if testing the weight of the word.

“Yes. She never says too much about herself. Never asks too much about me, either. But the way she moves…” Aemma paused, her gaze following Holly as the girl crossed the room with a tray balanced effortlessly on one hand. There was no wasted motion, no nervous glances at the noble company in her shop. Just the same easy poise she’d had the very first day Aemma walked through the door.

“She’s not from here. And she’s not some runaway nobleman’s daughter turned baker’s apprentice, no matter what people whisper. I think she’s something else entirely. Something new.”

Rhaenys’s gaze tracked Holly’s steps, the faint narrowing of her eyes betraying the thoughts running behind them. “She looks at you as though she has no idea who you are.”

“She doesn’t,” Aemma said, feeling an odd, private twinge at the admission. “Everyone else in the city calls me ‘the Queen’ or ‘your majesty.’ She calls me ‘love’ and brings me honey biscuits.”

That earned the faintest curve of Rhaenys’s lips, though her eyes stayed sharp and measuring. “And you like that.”

Aemma didn’t answer right away. Instead, she lifted her cup and took a slow sip, letting the warm, spiced sweetness linger on her tongue. Across the room, Holly was laughing at something her little dragon had done, the sound bright and carefree in the dim, firelit shop. The sound didn’t sound like courtly pleasantries did – it settled in her chest, warm as the tea in her hands. It felt real.

“Yes,” Aemma said finally, her voice softer than she meant it to be. “I think I do.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenys had not expected much from the little shop.

Another gossip-fed curiosity in a city that thrived on whispers. Probably nothing more than a decent baker with a knack for rumor. It was odd that such a thing had grabbed the attention of the Queen though. But the moment she’d stepped inside, she’d known this place was…different. And maybe Rhaenys could understand the appeal.

Not because of the dragon – though, Seven save her, there was a dragon.

The beast looked young. Small enough to curl into a teacup, but nothing about it said harmless. It was more developed than any hatchling she had seen, and she had seen her share. Seasmoke and Syrax had both been smaller, softer, large head and feet compared to the rest of them, wobbly and less certain of their wings when they first emerged.

This one was all sharp edges and focused intent. A crest of horns running down its neck and back like jagged mountain peaks, a whipcord tail ending in wicked barbed spikes, and a narrow beak that clicked faintly when it regarded her. Even curled on its perch beside a jar of sugared almonds, it radiated the smug awareness of a creature that knew it could put holes in anyone foolish enough to try touching it.

And it was not because of the smells – though they were enough to make her stomach clench pleasantly and her mouth to start to water. Butter, cinnamon, something bright and citrusy hiding beneath the heavier scents.

No, it was the girl…Holly.

She wore marigold yellow, the color warm against her skin, with black embroidery curling like vines along the hems and cuffs. Over it, a black apron stitched with gold flowers, the thread catching the light when she moved. Her hair was pinned up, but loose curls had worked free to frame her face. She looked less like a shopkeeper and more like a noblewoman playing at one. Some runaway lady hiding in plain sight, apron strings in place of jewels, she thought.

Her clothes were too finely made to be anything but a daughter of a lord. A bastard one, perhaps, but one clearly well off.

Rhaenys caught her between tables. “Your House,” she said casually, nodding toward the small shape stitched to the apron’s pocket – a badger, she thought, embroidered in neat golden thread.

“My house?” Holly blinked, then grinned. “Hufflepuff.”

Rhaenys arched a brow. “A badger for a sigil?”

“Mm-hm. Patience, Dedication, Loyalty,” Holly said, the words crisp and certain, as if reciting from memory. Then, with a flicker of humor, “We’re stubborn little beasts. Dig in, don’t let go. Mostly keep to ourselves. Until someone’s foolish enough to poke at us that is.”

Rhaenys studied her a moment longer. She could almost believe it. The girl carried herself like someone who belonged anywhere she chose to stand. Chin high, shoulders easy, eyes never down cast. That sort of posture didn’t come from baking bread all day.

“She’s not from here,” Rhaenys murmured later to Aemma, keeping her gaze fixed on Holly as the girl moved behind the counter, the strange dragon hopping after her like a shadow.

“No,” Aemma agreed, a knowing curve to her lips. “But she’s here now.”

The dragon – Countess Erszébet Báthory the Second, Aemma had called her, without so much as a smile – turned its head just enough to watch Rhaenys again. Not a baby, apparently. Five years old. The name alone suggested a story worth hearing.

And Rhaenys intended to hear it.

Holly moved through the shop with the same steady confidence she’d had all evening, but Rhaenys noticed how her eyes flicked toward the window. It was late.

Holly walked over to the door and locked it, flipped the sign, and began stacking chairs on tables. Then, without ceremony, she crossed the room to where Aemma and Rhaenys still sat in their corner booth and set something small on the table between them.

A vial. Suspicious-looking. The liquid inside was amber, but it moved oddly – sluggish in some swirls, quick in others, almost as though it were thinking about where it wanted to go.

“I adjusted the recipe to help with the swelling. Three drops instead of five now. Still in your morning tea, love. Every day until the baby’s born,” Holly said, tone brisk but not unkind, gesturing to the vial. “Have you been reading the book I gave you.”

“Of course,” Aemma said with a small smile, slipping the vile into one of hidden pockets in her sleeve. “I’ve just gotten to the chapter abo –”

“Are you in the habit of poisoning my cousin?” Rhaenys interrupted as she narrowed her eyes.

Holly’s brows rose. “If I wanted to poison her, she’d be dead already. I’ve been giving her these concoctions for six months,” she leaned back, folding her arms. “It’s for her health.”

Aemma tilted her head, listening.

“Babies take what they need,” Holly went on. “They’re parasites – don’t look at me like that, I mean it fondly…mostly. And if the mother can’t keep up, they just help themselves. Bones, teeth, hair, whatever they can get at. This gives her enough of what she needs, so the baby won’t rob the pantry.”

“And the book you two were talking about?” Rhaenys asked curiously.

“Personal journal of a midwife,” Holly said. “Best one I’ve ever heard of. Full of everything from remedies to birthing positions to recipes for broth when you can’t keep anything else down. The writing is cramped, but worth the read. I thought she might find it helpful. I’m sure she’ll show it to you if you’re interested.”

Holly made to return to the counter, but Rhaenys' voice stopped her. “You do know who we are?”

Holly turned back, looking faintly puzzled at the question. “Of course. She’s Aemma, and you’re her cousin Rhaenys. I might have a terrible memory, but I’ve always been good with names.”

She said it earnestly, too earnestly.

And yet, somehow, Rhaenys found herself smiling.

Chapter Text

Another normal day.

Which, in my life, meant the usual. Up before dawn, dragging myself out of bed while Zeezee tried to suffocate me by curling up on my face like a smug, scaly cat. She weighed almost nothing, but somehow she had perfected the art of feeling like a brick on my windpipe.

The oven was already grumbling at me by the time I shuffled into the kitchen, as if it knew it had more power in this relationship than I did. By fifth bell, I was juggling dough, boiling syrup, and trying to stop Zeezee from ‘helping’ by stealing raisins.

By sixth bell, the first wave of customers had poured in. Mostly dockworkers after the long night shift, a few yawning merchants on their way to open shop, and the usual handful of gossiping matrons who treated my corner table like it was their personal council chamber.

Somewhere between midmorning and “I can feel the flour in my hair follicles,” the door opened again and in strolled Ser Harwin.

Not to be confused with Old Harwin who creaked when he moved, but the Goldcloak who walked like he was wearing armor even when he wasn’t. Today he was in his civies. No armor, no helmet, just a worn tunic and the easy grin of someone not currently sworn to uphold the King’s peace for another few hours.

“What time are you closing today?” he asked.

“Same time I always do on a weekday,” I said, sliding a tray of honey biscuits into the display. “Sixth bell after noon. Then I’ll probably still be working until ninth bell cleaning and baking for tomorrow.” I straightened, giving him a look. “Why?”

He hesitated just long enough to make me suspicious. Harwin wasn’t usually the ‘choose your words carefully’ type.

“You might want to close up early,” he said finally. “Get home before dark.”

I raised a brow and folded my arms. “And why would that be? Planning to start charging people for walking after sunset?”

More hesitation. His gaze flicked toward the window, then back to me. “Goldcloaks will be out in force tonight. Orders from the Prince,” his tone had shifted – lighter gone, replaced with the kind of voice people use when they know you’re not going to like the answer. “Streets are getting…cleaned up before the tournament.”

“Cleaned up?” I echoed, because vague answers never meant anything good.

He didn’t sugarcoat it. “Thieves. Rapists. Murderers,” the words dropped heavy between us. “He wants the city safer before the crowds arrive.”

I leaned my elbows on the counter, frowning. Extreme? Yes. But rape and murder weren’t exactly hobbies I felt protective of. And thieves…well, I’d lost enough sugar to wandering hands in my life to be at least mildly unsympathetic.

Still, there was something in his expression – some awareness that ‘cleaning up’ in King’s Landing wasn’t always as precise as the name implied.

“What time’s this heroic crusade supposed to wrap up?” I asked.

“Probably tenth bell,” Harwin said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “If we’re lucky.”

I nodded. “Then I’ll close after noon, get some rest, and come back for tenth bell.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ll come back?”

“Of course. You lot are going to be starving when you’re done, and who else is going to feed you?”

His brows pulled together like I’d just said I planned to take a stroll through Flea Bottom in my nightclothes.

“I live upstairs, Harwin,” I reminded him, jerking a thumb toward the ceiling. “If I’m not in here, I’m up there. Not exactly a dangerous commute.”

Still, I stepped out from behind the counter and pointed toward the brand-new outdoor wall fountain I’d had installed just yesterday – carved stone, clear water, and a very stern-looking badger head etched into the top, mouth open and water falling from the tip of its tongue. “But tell everyone they need to wash their hands before being served. I don’t care how heroic you feel, I’m not letting the city’s grime anywhere near my pastries.”

Harwin was still blinking at me like I’d announced I intended to juggle knives blindfolded when I shoved a warm scone into his hands. Before he could argue, I spun him toward the door and gave him a firm push between the shoulder blades. He was such a big man that I wasn’t disillusioned by the fact that he let me push him around. If he had really dug his heels in, I doubted I could get him to even shift his weight, let alone spun and pushed out the door.

“Eat. And pass it along,” I said, already herding him over the threshold. “Now go be scary somewhere else.”

He muttered something that might have been a laugh as the door swung shut behind him, the smell of fresh scones trailing after him into the street.

Chapter Text

The barracks stank of oil, sweat, and the damp leather of armor that hadn’t been washed or even properly dried in weeks. Smoke from the hearth clung low in the rafters, mixing with the tang of metal polish and the faint, sour note of wet wool left too long in a corner.

Outside, the yard was alive with noise. Boots pounding on cobblestones, the clatter of spear-butts hitting stone, shouted orders echoing off the walls as patrols formed up. The sound had a certain rhythm to it, one Captain Lorent normally found satisfying. Tonight, it just grated.

The Prince was back.

Which meant chaos. Which meant the men either stood straighter than they had in months, desperate to be noticed, or tried to blend into the shadows, equally desperate not to be. And tonight – thanks to Daemon bloody Targaryen – that meant the so-called ‘cleaning of the streets.’

It should have been simple. Assign patrols. Make sure every street in every district had eyes and steel on it. Keep the men’s attention on the work – thieves, cutthroats, the usual filth – until the Prince was satisfied the city looked less like itself.

But no. Ser Harwin had to open his big mouth.

Now half the bloody watch was trying to wrangle their way into the same two streets, swapping routes like they were throwing dice in an alley, cashing in favors and even making threats. And the reason?

Because, according to Harwin, Holly at The Countess & The Cup was reopening after they were done. The girl was mad.

Lorent still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Apparently, fresh bread, sugared rolls, and whatever else she had in those ovens were enough to make grown men in armor act like squabbling market wives.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the appeal – he’d eaten there himself more than once and enjoyed Holly’s quick wit and sweet buns – but this was a citywide operation ordered by the Prince of the Realm, not a picnic. And right now, his so-called disciplined patrols were more worried about getting a seat in Holly’s shop than keeping their arses alive.

Lorent slammed his palm onto the table hard enough to make the inkpot jump. “Patrols are set. They stay set! If I find one man, one, out of position near The Cup, I’ll walk in there myself and tell Holly to bar the lot of you for life.”

That earned a few mutters and a groan from somewhere in the back. Everyone in the room knew the threat was real. Holly had a way of smiling when she told you no that made it feel like she was disappointed in a small unruly child. The guilt stuck for months.

“Now shut your mouths, get your gear on, and remember why we’re out there. This is the Prince’s order, not a bloody picnic!”

The noise settled. Armor straps tightened. The men filed out into the night air, the clink of mail and creak of leather filling the courtyard.

And then, of course, the Prince himself appeared.

Daemon Targaryen strolled across the yard in his gleaming armor, every scale and plate catching torchlight like it had been polished for hours. His cloak – a brighter and cleaner gold than any cloak his men owned – swung behind him. He looked like a man who had already decided the night belonged to him.

Lorent straightened. “My Prince. Patrols are ready.”

Daemon’s eyes slid past him toward the open barracks gate, where the clang of steel and shouted orders drifted in from the yard. Then they came back, slow and deliberate, one brow arched in lazy amusement.

“The Cup,” he repeated, tasting the word as if weighing whether it belonged in a goblet or on a wanted poster. “What is it? Sounds like a brothel. Or a gambling den. Or both,” his tone lingered just on the edge of mockery and vague interest.

Lorent kept his expression fixed. He’d learned long ago that answering Daemon when he was fishing for trouble was about as wise as walking barefoot into a forge.

The Prince’s smirk deepened when silence stretched. “No? You’re not going to tell me?” He leaned in half a step, lowering his voice like they were sharing some wicked joke. “Whatever it is, it must be worth the fuss. I’ve seen men risk their lives with less determination than they’re showing to get themselves posted in that district tonight.”

He straightened again, dark eyes glinting with interest. “Perhaps I’ll pay it a visit. See what’s got my men so…devoted.”

The way he said devoted made it sound dangerous, almost lascivious. Lorent didn’t rise to the bait.

Daemon’s mouth curved into something sharper than a smile, the kind that promised trouble for someone – though Lorent suspected it wouldn’t be the men. Without another word, the Prince turned on his heel and strode towards the gate with the casual confidence of a man who had already decided the evening’s entertainment.

Captain Lorent watched him go, jaw tight. If Daemon Targaryen set foot in Holly’s shop, Lorent would pay good coin to see her toss him right back out on the street…and twice as much to watch her do it in front of an audience. He shook his head and headed after his men. Chances were that he would end up paying a lot of coin to pull Holly out of the Black Cells for assaulting a prince. Maybe it would be best if he kept his Commander far away from The Countess and The Cup.

Chapter Text

The carts rattled over the cobblestones, iron wheels groaning, squelching through things better left unnamed. Blood slicked the stones in thin rivers, pooling in the dips, the metallic tang of it so thick it coated the back of the throat. The heaps they carried were not neat. Limbs were tossed in with torsos, heads jostling against each other, all stacked like butcher’s scraps for a feast no sane man would eat.

The men moved among it like wolves after a kill, still buzzing with the heat of the night. Laughing too loud, voices cracking with the strain of shouting over screams. Their eyes were bright, glassy with adrenaline, teeth bared in grins that had nothing to do with humor.

Daemon let himself take it in, every drop of it, the stink and the noise and the way the city seemed to hum with the aftershock of violence. This was what he knew. This was what he liked.

Near the gate, he spotted Captain Lorent, jaw tight and voice carrying over the chaos as he tried to beat the Goldcloaks back into something resembling order. He was doing well enough…until the ripple started.

It began with two men breaking off from the group, slipping down a side street with quick, purposeful strides. Then three more. Then a knot of six, shoving each other as they passed like boys racing to market. Within moments, the order Lorent had fought for was gone, half the men peeling away in the same direction, grinning like thieves who knew exactly where the unguarded silver was kept.

Daemon’s brows climbed as another pair of Goldcloaks elbowed past, nearly bowling over a cart driver in their hurry. “What’s this, then?” he drawled, watching the stream of men break rank like hounds catching scent of a bitch in heat.

Lorent didn’t answer, too busy barking orders and catching sleeves, though the men slipped from his grip like eels, grinning as they vanished down the same crooked side street. His jaw worked like he was chewing nails.

Daemon’s smirk was slow, sharp. “Ah, so this is about that ‘Cup’ I’ve been hearing whispered about all night,” he let the name linger on his tongue like wine, savoring it. “Must be a hell of a whore to make hardened men scramble like street urchins after a sweet roll.”

Lorent turned then, and the look he gave could have cut steel. “Best not say that in front of the men, my Prince,” he said, voice low and edged. “They’re fond of her. Protective, even.”

It wasn’t lost on Daemon that Lorent had said it like a warning – one that included himself.

“Fond,” Daemon drawled, tasting the word like it was foreign to him. He let it hang a beat too long, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Any woman who spreads her legs for that many men is a whore, Captain. Call it what it is.”

“She doesn’t spread her legs for them,” Lorent said, voice flat as iron. “She does something much worse.”

Daemon cocked his head, intrigued despite himself. “Oh?” His smirk deepened, slow and wolfish. “And what’s that?”

“She feeds them.”

For a moment, Daemon just stared, and then his laughter cracked sharp and genuine, ringing off the walls. “Gods, and that’s all it takes?”

Lorent didn’t so much as blink. He only turned on his heel and started walking, his long stride cutting through the press of lingering onlookers.

Daemon, still amused, fell into step beside him. Their boots struck in unison, a steady rhythm on the uneven stones. They wove through the city’s veins, past shuttered stalls and alleys that stank of fish guts, piss, and smoke. The copper tang of the night’s work still clung faintly to the air, fading under the more familiar rot-and-salt stink of King’s Landing itself. Too many bodies crammed into too little space.

Somewhere ahead, faint on the night air, Daemon caught a whiff of something warmer, richer, spiced. And the thought that it might be the mysterious “Cup” only sharpened his curiosity.

The alley Lorent finally turned into was narrow enough to make him feel uncomfortable, the sort of place where a man might have to tilt his shoulders to pass if the wrong cart got stuck. The walls leaned in on each other like drunks at the end of a long night, their upper stories crooked just enough to cast the whole lane in shadow despite the torchlight. Rainwater – or something less clean – dripped from eaves above, pattering into the grime below.

The alley wasn’t much to look at. A dead-end sliver of the city, the kind Daemon would have walked past without a second glance. Until he caught sight of the movement.

Half a dozen guards – his Goldcloaks – were hauling tables and chairs from the building with red curtains. Not just a handful…dozens. The scrape of wood and the grunt of effort filled the alley as they carted them across to join an already impressive sprawl of furniture crowding the space in front of a narrow building.

He realized, with a flicker of surprise, that the furniture was coming from a brothel. It was a lesser known brothel, one that Daemon had never seen before. The kind lesser men frequented, where the whores with nothing really to look at, but they were cheap and willing to sleep with anyone for a bit of coin.

The women themselves drifted in and out of the doorway like brightly dressed seabirds, shawls slipping, hair pinned high or tumbling loose in that way that said they just sent home a satisfied client. A few leaned against the doorframe, others perched on the steps, all of them chatting easily with the men hauling the couches, chairs, and tables. Laughter bubbling up without the forced edge Daemon was used to hearing from their kind.

None of them seemed to be working. Or at least, not in the way he’d expected. No bargaining, no coaxing touches, no half-lidded glances promising what the coin could buy. Just conversation and amusement, as if the night’s entertainment was simply watching this little operation unfold.

“I thought you said she wasn’t a whore,” Daemon said, idle as a cat.

“She isn’t,” Lorent answered, voice flat in the way of a man holding his temper by the teeth. Daemon knew that tone well. he’d heard it often enough from his brother’s cunt of a Hand.

“She just planted herself beside a brothel and swears it’s good for business,” the captain continued. “Says drunks stumbling out with coin still in their pockets are likely to want bread after their…activities.”

His mouth thinned and he frowned down at the cobblestone. “I’ve told her more than once to move the shop somewhere sensible. Every time, she tells me off like I’m some child with sticky fingers leaving streaks on her display case.”

Daemon’s gaze slid past him. The place stood out against the alley. Fresh wheat-yellow shutters, a neat gold sign over a black door. Warm air rolled out, heavy with butter and spice. It hooked the senses and didn’t let go.

And there, by the wall, was a line of men. Not jostling for position, not shouldering each other aside, but waiting their turn at a stone fountain, sleeves rolled high as they scrubbed their hands. Soap clung faint and sharp above the splash of water, domestic as any septa’s ritual.

Daemon slowed, one brow lifting as the strangeness of it settled over him. This was what held the city’s attention? Not a warm bed or a wet mouth, but clean hands, borrowed tables, and something hot on a plate.

He nearly laughed…nearly. But the smell curling from the door gave him pause.

Daemon’s lip curled faintly as he watched the line at the fountain. “Your men look like novices before a septa, all that scrubbing. Is this what discipline of the Goldcloaks has come to? Queuing for sweetrolls?”

“They queue because she won’t let them eat without it,” Lorent’s jaw tightened. “Won’t have a crumb touched with dirty hands. I’ve tried telling her to move closer to the Keep, where hygiene is more a standard…” he trailed off with a vague frustrating gesture.

“But she ignored you,” Daemon’s tone was all amusement, soft as a knife sliding from its sheath.

Lorent glanced aside. “She ignores everyone. But she feeds them, and that keeps them coming back.”

Daemon let the silence stretch, savoring it. Then he gave a low hum, half-laugh, half-threat. “So…a baker has more authority over your own orders? Interesting.”

Lorent opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.

Daemon’s smirk sharpened as he turned back toward the shop’s black door, the golden sign gleaming above it. “Perhaps I should pay her a visit,” he drawled, letting the words lounge. “See if her…bread is half as good as her backbone.”

The pause before bread made the innuendo plain and Daemon could see Lorent’s fists clench from beside him. It took a lot of effort to get the other man worked up, and Daemon felt much like a dog with a new bone. The night was turning out much better than he had imagined.

Torchlight washed over his armor as he surveyed the alley. Men were scrubbing at the fountain, the working girls lounging in their doorways, the murmuring press of bodies around the black door. A brisk voice cut through the noise somewhere in the knot of shoulders and helms. He couldn’t place the speaker, only the quick authority of it.

“So which one is she?” he asked, eyes narrowing with interest. “The redhead barking orders?”

The captain didn’t answer, but Daemon could tell from the red-heads garb that she was about as far from a baker as he was. He smiled, patient and predatory as Lorent clenched his teeth so hard to almost crack them, and didn’t move. He could wait. Let the crowd thin and let this…baker reveal herself.

Butter and spice drifted warm into the night as he lingered, amused on the edge of discovery.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun went down, the whole street had that prickly, on-edge feeling you only get before something bad or very stupid happens. Not the quiet, creeping kind either. This was the restless, twitchy energy that made people slam shutters early and pretend they couldn’t hear the shouting three streets over.

I’d already made up my mind. Goldcloaks or not, I wasn’t turning away paying customers – especially the kind that would be half-dead with exhaustion, half-drunk on their own importance, and ready to pay in full just to sit down. Besides, the tournament was coming, and I knew from experience that ‘heroic’ stories got better – and more expensive – the moment you put a meat pie in the teller’s hands.

Feeding the city watch at ten bells wasn’t as simple as unlocking the door and hoping for the best. I’d been at it for hours – restocking supplies, keeping the ovens going like they were in a competition to see which could roast me alive first, and assembling enough food to survive a siege.

Zeezee perched on the counter, claws clicking lightly on the wood, watching me like a foreman overseeing an apprentice who’d been hired for charm rather than competence. Her tail tapped against the pastry case in time with my movements, her little bronze head swiveling whenever I reached for the sugar tin.

She trilled disapprovingly when I dusted sugar over the last tray of lemon buns, the sound sharp and bossy, like a scolding nurse.

“Yes, yes, I know. They’ll get sticky fingers,” I flicked a pinch of sugar at her snout, which she promptly sneezed out in a fine mist. “I’ve seen these men. Sticky fingers aren’t even in their top ten hygiene crimes.”

She huffed, turned her back to me, and curled her tail around herself like I’d just committed a personal betrayal. I ignored her.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon, browned butter, melting cheese, and the faintest whiff of mint and ash drifting from Zeezee herself. Every surface was covered with baskets of crusty rolls, stacks of meat pasties still steaming, neat rows of sweet buns glistening under sugar, and cooling racks of hand pies waiting their turn in the spotlight.

I’d even dragged out the big teapots – the really big ones, the ones that looked like they could double as bludgeoning weapons in a tavern brawl. Gods help me, I was brewing enough tea to recreate the Boston Tea Party if I wanted to. Except, in my version, the harbor would be made of milk, the ships would be made of biscuits, and the revolutionaries would be too busy dunking scones to bother with taxation.

By ninth bell, I had the tables set, chairs lined up, and more than a few mental bets placed on how long it would take them to abandon all sense of dignity the moment the smell hit their noses. My plan was airtight.

Until it wasn’t.

The first knock came just before ten bells – loud enough to rattle the windows in their frames, followed by a roar of laughter that rolled down the street like thunder. I peeked out the front and froze.

Not a trickle. Not a rush. A flood.

Goldcloaks in every direction, pouring into the alley like a dam had burst and someone had shouted ‘free drinks’ at the bottom. Helmets under arms, hair plastered to sweaty brows, eyes lit with the leftover adrenaline of the night’s work.

They were spattered head to toe in blood, grime, and other unmentionable body fluids that I didn’t want anywhere near my tables. The smell hit a second later – copper, sweat, and something far worse – making the warm sugar and cinnamon inside seem almost indecent by comparison. I’d seen incoming tides less determined, but at least tides didn’t drip whatever they were covered in.

And then the pit formed in my stomach.

Not enough chairs. Not nearly enough chairs. I could have maybe seated half of them – if the other half didn’t mind perching on the rafters. And with this many eyes on the place, there was no way I could slip into the Room without drawing attention.

I took a deep breath, turned on my heel, and gently shoved Zeezee toward the back room.
“Guard the scones, Your Grace,” I told her. She gave me a look that said she was taking this responsibility far more seriously than I was.

Outside, the night air was thick with heat, sweat, and the kind of charged energy that always followed violence. The brothel’s door was wide open, spilling music, perfume, and wine-sour laughter into the street. A few women lounged against the wall, skirts swaying in the warm breeze, watching the chaos with the same expression I probably wore—half amusement, half calculation.

I plastered on my sweetest, most harmless smile. “Ladies,” I said, sauntering over like I wasn’t about to beg.

One of them, a sharp-jawed blonde, narrowed her eyes. “What do you want, Cup?”

“Don’t be rude,” came another voice, warm and commanding. Lysa slipped into the doorway, bangles catching the lamplight, a half-smile curling her painted lips. “She’s our friend. And friends don’t get asked what they want like they owe you money, Shazz.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” the blonde. Shazz, muttered, but she backed down with a grin.

“Honestly?” I said with a smile. Lysa was always fun to see. I missed her on the days she slept in and didn’t visit. “I need furniture. Benches, tables, the kind that doesn’t collapse when someone sneezes.”

That earned a ripple of laughter.

“A girl comes begging, and it’s for furniture,” one of the brunettes teased. “Not even a bottle.”

“Or a bed,” another chimed in. “Are you sure we can’t entice you to stay, try one of our sturdy beds out for yourself?”

“Oh, stop that,” Lysa said with an admonishing wave of her hand. “You leave her alone, she’s good people. And she feeds you lot for half price!” Lysa tilted her head at me. “So, what broke this time?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “That’s the point. I’d rather move things before they’re broken by the men with swords.”

That perked their interest, half the group leaning in like cats scenting cream.

“Oooh, swords,” one cooed. “Tall ones, I hope.”

“Oi, girls!” the curly-haired one called into the smoky interior. “The Cup needs bodies, and not the usual kind!”

“Only if they’re tall and pretty!” Another voice shouted from upstairs.

“Tall or pretty,” Lysa corrected smoothly, her eyes never leaving mine. “She can’t afford both.”

I gave her my driest look. “I’ll pay in sweet buns.”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Deal.”

She clapped her hands, turning back to the others. “All right, you heard her. Dolly, Mira, Sera, shoes on. We’re hauling for the Cup. And if anyone asks where our tables went, tell them we’re expanding into fine dining.”

“Fine dining?” Dolly asked, laughing as she pushed off the wall.

“Bread counts,” I called over my shoulder as we started toward the shop.

“Barely,” Lysa said, linking her arm through mine, her grin wicked. “But I suppose we’ll allow it.”

Within moments, they were catcalling at the passing Goldcloaks.

“Ser Muscles! You’ve got arms, use ‘em!”

“You there! Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, lift!”

One blew a kiss at a man twice her size, making him blush as he heaved a table over one shoulder.

The furniture came out in a steady stream – chairs, tables, even a few low couches and narrow beds that looked like they’d seen better, and probably stranger days. The women directed traffic like they ran the city, and in this alley, they might as well have. Soon the space outside the Cup was bristling with places to sit, the brothel girls still teasing every man who passed within range.

I went back inside and started hauling out cups, mugs, and every teapot I owned – plus a few that had been living in the back cupboard long enough to collect dust. The tables filled quickly, and the air turned into a mix of perfume, sweat, roasted meat, and sugar.

The first of the Goldcloaks barely had time to sit before I was at their side with a basket big enough to drown a child in.

“Sweet or savory?” I barked, holding the thing open so they could see the glistening pastries and still-warm meat pies.

“Sweet!”

“Savory!”

“Both!”

The answers came rapid-fire, and I moved just as fast, swapping empty baskets for full ones, making quick rounds with tea that steamed in the cooling night air. The noise in the alley turned from the restless chatter of men waiting to the deep, satisfied rumble of men eating like they hadn’t in days.

I’d just dropped another basket on a table when the mood shifted slightly, heads turning toward the far end of the alley. The crowd parted a little as Captain Lorent came into view, walking beside another man – tall and lean, moving like he owned the stones under his boots. His hair caught the lantern light, pale as moonlight.

I blinked, frowning. First Aemma, then Rhaenys, and now this one. What in the world was going on in King’s Landing that was turning all these young people grey so early?

Chapter Text

The alley was a riot of noise and heat, thick with the stink of sweat, wine, and whatever the Goldcloaks had tracked in from their night’s work – blood, piss, and the metallic tang of fear still clinging to their armor. The air seemed to shimmer with leftover adrenaline, voices raised in laughter that had too sharp an edge to it.

Daemon wasn’t sure what he had expected, but certainly not this. Not furniture scattered down the street like someone had upended a tavern into the open air. Not the line of soldiers waiting their turn at a wall fountain, dutifully washing their hands like chastened children before a feast. Not the mismatched sea of chairs, stools, and narrow beds pressed into service as seating, all facing a narrow building with yellow shutters and the golden glint of lamplight spilling from its open door.

And certainly not her.

She cut through the chaos that parted for her without hesitation, she didn’t even glance up to see if anyone was in her way. Dressed in a warm marigold yellow, edged in black embroidery that caught the lamplight with every step. Over it, a black apron, the pockets sagging slightly with weight, gold-threaded flowers curling along the hem. The fabric was too fine for a dockside girl, too sturdy for a court lady, and dusted in flour like she’d walked out of her kitchen in the middle of conquering it.

Daemon’s eye tracked the little things. The steady swing of her arms, the way the watching whores greeted her without any hint of competition, the half-drunk Goldcloaks moving aside without being told. She had the kind of presence that claimed the ground without announcing itself – a quiet, unshakable authority he didn’t often see outside of generals and queens.

She didn’t pause to preen or acknowledge the stares, either. She moved like a woman with somewhere to be and no time for nonsense.

“Captain Lorent,” she called, her voice warm enough to pass for friendly, yet pitched perfectly to cut through the din without slipping into the shrillness most women needed to be heard over a crowd of armored men. “I’m going to have to decline your offer of chickens. Again.”

Daemon glanced sidelong at Lorent just in time to see the man’s shoulders stiffen like he was about to square off with a sellsword. He turned from barking at two struggling watchmen who were attempting – badly – to wrangle a narrow bed down the brothel’s front steps. “You’ve no idea how much use you’d get from fresh eggs, woman.”

She stopped just short of him, resting her overflowing basket on one hip and tilting her head as though he’d suggested she keep a rat in her pantry. “Where would I even put them? In the back room, between the flour sacks and the tea? No, thank you. And before you suggest it, the answer’s still no to goats, pigs, or whatever other livestock you’re hoping to foist off on me. I’m a baker, Captain, not a farmer.”

Lorent crossed his arms with the stubborn air of a man who’d rather march into battle than lose an argument. “A baker could use the eggs.”

“A baker could also buy the eggs,” she shot back without missing a beat, one brow lifting in challenge. “Owning animals is far too much work. I’ve enough to do without adding a henhouse to it, thanks. Do you know what chickens do to clean floors? I do, and I like my sanity far too much.”

Daemon’s mouth curved – not quite a smile, not quite mockery. A sharp, clever tongue, quick enough to parry Lorent without hesitation. And the ease between them wasn’t the stiff politeness of patron and merchant, it was something looser, familiar. It was something finally interesting

 She turned then, catching his eye as though she were about to offer some polite little greeting – mouth curving into the sort of pleasant smile people gave strangers they didn’t yet know how to place.

He didn’t give her the chance. “You some Baratheon bastard, then?” he asked, voice cutting through the space between them as his gaze dragged deliberately over the black and gold.

The smile faltered, blink slow and deliberate, like she was making sure she’d heard him right. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? What even is a Baratheon?”

Lorent stepped in before Daemon could answer. “House Baratheon,” he said, tone somewhere between patient and exasperated. “They hold Storm’s End in the Stormlands. Paramount house. Colors are yellow and black – a black stag in a yellow field. Their words are Ours is the Fury.”

“Oh,” her brow furrowed briefly before she gave a short laugh. “Well, that explains it. No, I’m from House Hufflepuff. Not a Paramount anything. My colors are black and yellow, a yellow badger in a black field. My parents were married, so not a bastard. And my words are Patience, Dedication, Loyalty.”

She caught a corner of her apron between her fingers, the black fabric crumpling slightly as she lifted it to display the slouching pocket. A fat, lazy-looking badger lounged in golden thread, its paws tucked under its chin like it hadn’t a care in the world. “See? That’s my sigil right there.”

Daemon stared at the embroidered animal, unimpressed. “Hufflepuff,” he repeated, slow and dry, like he was testing the word for weakness and finding it wanting.

Lorent muttered half under his breath, “Figures. A lady, then.”

That actually made her laugh – an unselfconscious, warm sound that carried easily over the noise around them. It was so unguarded it startled him, if only because it didn’t seem to be put on for anyone’s benefit. “Oh, gods, no. I’m just a baker. Everyone needs to stop giving me titles. It’s exhausting.”

Lorent’s gaze flicked over her again. “Could also be the hair. Baratheon’s have black hair.”

Holly’s hand went up almost reflexively, fingers brushing the loose strands that had escaped her messy tail. Her curls caught the lantern light – dark enough to drink it in completely.

“A lot of people have black hair,” she said, a touch of incredulity in her voice. “It’s not exactly a rare trait. If every person with dark hair in the city was secretly a Baratheon, your Paramount House would be tripping over themselves.”

That earned her a low snort from Lorent and, to Daemon’s faint surprise, the ghost of an amused look in the Captain’s eye. She tilted her head, gave Daemon a once-over, and gestured at him with one flour-dusted hand.

“And if hair color’s your big gauge for family trees, then I’ve got news for you – terrible system. Because if I start assuming everyone who goes prematurely grey is related, well…that’d be ridiculous.”

Daemon’s brows inched upward, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Before he could correct her – or enjoy explaining exactly why her observation was amusing – her attention snagged on something over his shoulder. A commotion. She shifted to step past them, then hesitated, turning back with a look of mild curiosity.

“Speaking of which,” she said, pointing vaguely at his head, “is there something happening in King’s Landing that makes people go white so young? You’re the third one I’ve seen.”

Lorent blinked. “Third?”

She waved the question away as if it were a gnat, seeming to also completely forget her own question as well. “Wash your hands before you and your friend sit down.”

Lorent froze for half a heartbeat. “…friend?” He followed her gesture toward Daemon, realizing with a prickle of unease exactly what she meant.

“You don’t know who this is?”

She was already halfway turned toward the crowd, her voice carrying back over her shoulder. “Why would I? He hasn’t bothered to introduce himself.”

And just like that, she was gone again, weaving through the mass of Goldcloaks with a basket on her hip, barking out “Sweet or savory?” as if she hadn’t just treated the Rogue Prince of Dragonstone like any other tired man in the street.

Daemon stood there a moment longer, watching her disappear into the chaos like she’d never been standing in front of him.

Not bowing. Not simpering. Not even looking twice.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t known his name – or worse, hadn’t cared to ask. Every conversation in this city usually came with some undercurrent of fear, deference, or ambition. She’d given him none of it. Just a sharp tongue, a lazy badger stitched on her apron, and an order to wash his hands like a child.

The amusement simmered low in his chest, curling into something more dangerous.

Beside him, Lorent was staring after her, his expression a study in disbelief. “She… she truly doesn’t know.”

Daemon glanced at him sidelong. “So it would seem.”

Lorent shook his head slowly, as if trying to force the thought into place. “She was just talking to the Prince of Dragonstone, the Commander of the City Watch… and she –” he broke off, looking back toward the alley where her voice rose above the din, cheerfully berating a group of Goldcloaks into forming a proper queue. “Gods help me, I don’t think she’d care either way.”

Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Why should she? You’ve all been bending over yourselves for her, haven’t you?”

Lorent’s mouth worked, but no denial came.

“Exactly,” Daemon murmured, eyes tracking her through the crowd. “Now that…that’s interesting.”

Chapter Text

The shop was quiet in the way it only ever got after closing. Chairs stacked in slightly uneven towers, counters wiped until they gleamed, the air still warm from the day’s baking. The smell of cinnamon, yeast, and a faint trace of roasted onion hung in the room like a polite guest who didn’t know when to leave, mingling with the faint hiss of the cooling ovens. Outside, the street had gone soft and muffled, the usual clatter fading to the occasional drunken shout from farther down the alley.

I had my feet propped on a low stool, a mug of steaming tea cradled in one hand, and Zeezee draped across my lap like a smug, scaly mouse. She had her head tucked her wing, tail flicking in slow, lazy arcs as if she approved of the evening’s peace.

Across from me, Lysa perched with her own cup, pinky lifted just enough to make me suspicious she was doing it ironically. Her skirts were arranged in perfectly fanned layers that probably took practice, and her hair was pinned high in a way that screamed professional. The kind of professional that involved velvet chaise lounges, perfume thick enough to taste, and a working knowledge of the personal failings of half the men in the city.

Lysa worked at the brothel, which meant she knew everything about everyone – and if by some miracle she didn’t, she’d know by the end of the week.

“Y’know,” she said, lifting her cup with all the elegance of a queen at court, “I ought to thank you.”

I arched a brow over the rim of my mug. “For what? I haven’t done anything worth thanking lately…unless you count not setting the cutting board on fire this week.”

For some inexplicable reason, it had happened to me three times so far. I didn’t even know how.

“For all the extra clients you sent our way,” she said, grinning in that slow, knowing way of hers. “That night with the Goldcloaks? We were full before midnight. Full, Holly. Even the old rooms got used.”

I snorted into my tea, nearly spilling it. “I just borrowed some furniture.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, eyes glinting. “And sent them back carried by men with coin in their pockets, bellies full, and stories spilling out of them like cheap wine. Best advertisement we’ve had in years.”

I shook my head, laughing. “I’m not sure ‘came here after the baker fed me’ is the kind of testimonial you want to hang on the wall.”

“Don’t knock it. Works better than perfume,” she said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. Then her lips pursed in mock tragedy. “Shame about the chairs, though. Took us two days to scrub out the blood.”

That made me wrinkle my nose. “Blood on the furniture? That’s…eww. I hope they tipped you for the trouble.”

“Oh, they did.” Lysa’s grin sharpened. “Men get sentimental after a fight. Bleeding all over your upholstery seems to loosen the purse strings.”

I only half-listened after that, my attention slipping as easily as steam from the teapot. Zeezee had wriggled higher into my lap, stretching her neck so I could scratch just under her chin. She made that odd, thrumming sound – her version of a purr – and her tail swayed in slow, satisfied arcs, the tip twitching now and then like she was dreaming up something wicked.

My mind, meanwhile, had wandered off to far less glamorous thoughts. Like whether I could get away with installing a second fountain out front without sparking some kind of territorial feud between my customers and whoever thought the street belonged to them. That night with the Goldcloaks had proven one thing…the single fountain wasn’t cutting it. The queue had been ridiculous – snaking halfway down the block, men jostling like they were queuing for the last mug of ale in the city.

I could still picture them, helmets tucked under arms, shoving and swearing as they waited their turn to wash the gore off their hands before touching my pastries. And if that image didn’t justify a second fountain, I didn’t know what would.

“You know,” Lysa said suddenly, like she’d just remembered the best bit, “even the prince was there.”

That yanked me straight out of my fountain daydream. “The what?”

“The prince,” she repeated, slower this time, as if I’d somehow missed the meaning of the word itself. She leaned in, eyes going soft and dramatic. “The Rogue Prince, Holly, the King’s brother. Hair tied back, covered in sweat, armor gleaming like sin, and those eyes – Seven help me, those eyes could melt a woman where she stood. It’s a shame he didn’t step inside for a visit with the girls. We’d have given him a night worth remembering.”

I blinked. “What prince?”

She gave me the sort of look usually reserved for very slow children or people who’d just asked where the moon went in the daytime. “The Rogue Prince.”

“…right,” I said slowly, because that was somehow even less helpful. “And this should mean something to me?”

Her jaw actually dropped. “Holly! You talked to him.”

“When?”

“Tall. Armor. Sword. Dashing.” Lysa fluttered her fingers like she was painting the air with the memory. “Dark, dangerous eyes. Like he might kill you or kiss you –”

I held up a hand. “Ohhh. One of the Goldcloaks. Got it.”

She looked personally offended. “Not just one of the Goldcloaks! That was a Targaryen you were talking to. He’s a prince of the realm, Holly. The current heir to the throne – well, if the Queen doesn’t give birth to a boy, that is. A dragonrider. A warrior. A –”

“A man who works nights,” I interrupted. “Nice that the royal family makes their own kin work for a living. Keeps them humble.”

She stared at me like I’d sprouted antlers. “He doesn’t need to work –”

“Well, then, good on him for doing it anyway,” I said, taking a sip of tea. “Example to the youth, that’s what it is.”

That earned me a very undignified choke on her tea, which I counted as a small victory.

Still…I turned the thought over in my head as I scratched Zeezee’s chin. A prince, was it? If I hadn’t even noticed, he couldn’t have been a particularly notable one. And with a name like ‘the Rogue Prince,’ I’d half expect someone to at least stand out in a crowd – smirk like a fox, cloak billowing dramatically, maybe juggling knives while reciting scandalous poetry.

Not just another sweaty man in armor tracking half the city into my shop.

I sipped my tea, deciding I was vaguely disappointed in the whole thing, and made a mental note to ask Captain Lorent about this supposed ‘prince’ the next time I saw him – if I remembered…which I probably wouldn’t.

Zeezee stretched, yawned, and settled deeper into my lap. Tea, gossip, and a warm dragon. I couldn’t think of a better way to end the day.

Chapter Text

The midmorning rush had finally thinned enough for me to breathe. Most of the early crowd had shuffled off to work or errands, leaving behind a scattering of regulars who were happily camped at tables with their mugs and plates – an older couple sharing a plate of honey rolls, two dockhands dunking biscuits into their tea, a boy with jam all over his face trying and failing to hide it from his mother.

I’d just waved off my last take-away customer with a warm loaf under his arm and a warning not to eat it all before he got home when from the oven, the scent of the morning’s second batch of cheese-and-onion rolls told me I had about three heartbeats before their bottoms went from golden to charcoal.  

I ducked behind the counter, mitts already on, and wrestled the tray out of the oven. Steam hit my face, smelling like victory and butter. Perfect.

That was when the doorbell chimed, and over the hiss of the oven I caught the scrape of chairs skittering across the wooden floor. Too many at once to be normal.

“Be right with you!” I called, sliding the tray onto the cooling rack with the reverence reserved for holy relics. “Keep your fingers off the display case, or I’ll start charging extra for fingerprints!”

There was no reply. No polite cough from someone trying not to be a bother. No shuffling boots on the floorboards. Not even the familiar rustle of a coin purse being fished from a pocket.

I straightened, frowning.

The tables where my normal afternoon patrons tended to linger were all abandoned. The chairs still warm from where bodies had been, mugs half-drained, a spoon lay dripping onto the table. and scones left mid-bite as if someone had yelled fire. Zeezee’s head poked out from the back room, eyes narrowed, like even she thought something was off.

And in the middle of the sudden, impossible emptiness stood the white-haired man from the other night. This time, he was alone.

I blinked at him, then glanced at the door like maybe the rest of my customers had collectively decided to sprint to some festival or farmer’s market I’d once again forgotten about. Possible. Not likely, but possible. The city had plenty of odd traditions, most of which I was only vaguely aware of until they were happening right outside my shop.

“Lorent’s friend,” I greeted with a bright smile, tugging off my brightly embroidered oven mitts – one of my earlier projects that I was quite proud of if I do say so myself – and tossing them onto the counter. “Back again, are you?”

His eyes were sharp, unsettling, and far too steady as they tracked me across the kitchen and back to the counter, like he was cataloging every movement. Most people looked around the shop when they came in. He didn’t. He looked only at me, like the rest of the world could burn to ash and he wouldn’t notice until I moved.

“You remember me,” he said, not quite a question, his voice low and smooth in a way that made the hairs at the back of my neck lift.

“Well, yes,” I said, propping a hand on my hip. “You were here the other night. Hard to forget the man who cleared a path through a room full of Goldcloaks without actually touching anyone. Impressive trick.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. Was that amusement? I couldn’t tell.

He stepped further in, boots soft on the floorboards. “You didn’t give me your name then.”

“And you didn’t give me yours,” I shot back, reaching for a cloth to wipe the counter that didn’t need wiping.

A pause, the faintest tilt of his head. “Fair enough. Still, everyone else calls you ‘lady,’ or speaks of the Cup as if it bakes on its own. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Holly,” I said. “Baker and purveyor of tea, bread, and unsolicited opinions.”

He rolled the name over in his mouth, as though tasting it. “Holly…uncommon.”

“And you?” I prompted.

For half a second, I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. Then he straightened a fraction, like a man about to step onto a stage, and said, “Daemon.”

And then he just…looked at me.

It wasn’t a normal look, either. It was that very particular kind of look people give when they’ve just announced something they assume will cause shock, awe, or fainting – and are now waiting for you to do one of the three.

I stared back, mind turning over the name like I’d just been handed a word from a language I didn’t speak. “Right,” I said at last, drawing the word out. “Nice to meet you…Daemon.”

If he was expecting me to curtsy, I’m afraid I disappointed him.

Something in his expression flickered. Confusion, maybe even the tiniest pinch of disbelief, before it smoothed over again.

“Shame you scared off all the others,” I went on, nodding toward the empty tables. “I was on a roll this morning.”

That earned me an actual smirk, quick and sharp, before it vanished again. “They’ll be back,” he said.

“Good,” I said, moving toward the shelves. “Because you don’t look like you can eat enough to make up for the loss. Anyway,” I said, brushing my hands off on my apron. “You do look like you could use a proper breakfast though. Sweet or savory?”

Before he could answer, a familiar thump-thump-thump announced Zeezee’s return from the back room. She flew with the precision of a drunk pigeon and landed heavily on the counter near the newly finished twists, claws clicking on the wood, looking for all the world like a very smug, scaly housecat.

Daemon went still. His eyes locked on her, widening the way a man’s do when they see something they’re very sure shouldn’t exist outside a locked door and a lot of very expensive chains.

“You –” he started, stepping forward like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to grab me or the dragon. “You stole a hatchling from the pits.”

“What?” I glanced between him and Zeezee, who was sniffing the cooling rack. “No, I didn’t. She’s mine.”

“They’ll execute you for that,” he snapped, voice sharp with something that might have been anger…or disbelief.

“Well, that seems extreme,” I said, folding my arms. “Most people just complain about the noise or the mess. Not leap straight to execution.”

“You don’t understand,” his eyes cut back to me, incredulous. “No one outside the royal bloodline has the right to a hatchling. This is treason.”

“Wonderful,” I said dryly. “Maybe she can start paying rent if she’s such a serious political liability.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like he didn’t know whether to strangle me or laugh. He drew a slow breath, shoulders squaring as he smoothed his composure back into place. “You don’t seem to grasp the seriousness of what it is you have done. This isn’t a jest. You won’t hang for this. You’ll burn to death with dragonfire.”

“Sounds messy,” I said. “And here I was worried about soot from the oven.”

Zeezee gave a sharp snap at one of the cooling buns, crumbs scattering across the rack just as the bell over the door jingled again. In stepped Rhaenys, brushing a lock of hair from her face, her updo stacked so high I was convinced it had its own system of scaffolding.

“Did I miss the rush?” she asked, flashing that cheeky smile she used when she already knew the answer.

She always asked that and then pretended to be disappointed when we both knew she preferred the place quiet. Somehow, she had the unnerving knack of slipping in right after the last stragglers cleared out, between the lunch crowd and the pre-dinner trickle. At this point I was convinced it wasn’t coincidence so much as sorcery, or possibly a very well-trained spy network dedicated solely to tracking my scone sales.

And then when she looked up after pulling her hood down, she froze the instant she saw Daemon.

He froze too, though his posture shifted into something half-sardonic, half-surprised.

“Daemon,” she greeted, her voice tight and her face frowning.

“Rhaenys…” Daemon greeted back, looking just as frowny.

“Oh, excellent, you two are acquainted,” I said, all sunshine while the air went stiff enough to choke on. “That saves me from playing hostess. Considering how poorly introductions seem to go around here, I was half-ready to start handing out nametags.”

And then Zeezee, apparently bored with all the drama, decided to pick up a scone in her little jaws and give it an experimental puff of flame.

It caught instantly.

“Zeezee!” I yelped, snatching the flaming pastry out of her jaws and smothering it with a dish towel. Across the counter, Lorent’s friend and Aemma’s cousin just stared at me, both looking like they couldn’t decide if the bigger threat was me, each other, or the dragon.

Chapter Text

The little bakery smelled of sugar and heat, warm enough to blur the edge off the late morning chill. Rhaenys sat opposite Daemon at one of the mismatched tables, the wood clean despite the rush hour having only just ended. Holly had been quick – deft hands clearing plates, stacking mugs, and wiping the tables with brisk efficiency – while Rhaenys and Daemon had silently measured each other from across the room.

She hadn’t intended to linger. Not after walking in on…that scene.

A dragon no larger than a mouse, its scales catching the light in a way that made her question her own eyes. A young woman scolding it like a mischievous child, plucking a flaming scone from its tiny claws without even flinching. And Daemon looking almost wrong-footed for the first time in living memory.

It should have sent her out the door before she got pulled into whatever chaos her cousin had decided to stir. He was notorious for it. Bed a woman and leave her with a broken heart or a ruined reputation, rile a city until it bled and smile while it burned. She had spent years keeping her distance, unwilling to be drawn into his wake.

And yet here he was, intruding on what she had, in the briefest span of visits, begun to think of as a safe place. Holly was warm and quick-witted, with a way of making the air in the shop feel lighter just by speaking. In this cramped, bright-scented bakery, there was no court politics, no whispered treachery, no dragons in the sky waiting for war. Just fresh bread, steaming tea, and a tiny creature who set pastries on fire.

Now, with mugs of that tea between them and the hum of the street beyond the door, Rhaenys regarded her cousin over the rim of her cup.

“Well,” she said finally, “you didn’t mention you were planning to start your day in a bakery.”

Daemon leaned back, smirk curling slow and deliberate. “I wasn’t. Thought I’d see what had my men acting like green boys at their first tourney.”

“And?” she asked, arching a brow.

His gaze flicked toward the counter, where Holly was sliding another tray into the oven, flour dusting her apron in pale streaks. “Not what I expected.”

“That’s not an answer,” Rhaenys said, voice cool, though she felt the faintest spark of protectiveness stir in her chest.

Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Let’s just say the city’s got a new curiosity. And she’s hiding something.”

Rhaenys’ eyes went briefly to the tiny dragon perched near the window, its tail twitching idly. “I’d say that much is obvious.”

She watched as the dragon returned its attention to the charred remains of its earlier conquest and started to gnaw on the burnt scone as large as it was. Its bronze scales shimmered faintly, an odd shade that didn’t match any breed she knew well. It was small – too small – and far too calm for a creature meant for fire and blood.

Daemon followed her gaze, his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Pity,” he said, tone almost idle. “The girl will likely be executed once my brother hears she’s stolen a hatchling from the dragon pits.”

Rhaenys’ eyes snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. “You’re a fool if you believe she stole anything.”

“And why is that?” His brows lifted in mock innocence.

“Because that is no hatchling,” she said, nodding toward the dragon.

Rhaenys watched him closely as he studied the little dragon again, the way his eyes tracked her movements with a hunter’s patience. She knew that look. Daemon was weighing something – whether it was worth taking, breaking, or bending to his will.

“She’s five years old. Closer to six now, I suspect,” Rhaenys repeated, letting the words settle between them like stones. “Full grown for her kind. See the narrow wings? The sharper curve of the jaw? Her proportions are all wrong for a hatchling. She’s never been inside the pit, never been chained, and she isn’t one of ours,” she added. “She doesn’t respond to our blood, or to the old Valyrian words. I’ve tried.”

Daemon’s gaze lingered on the dragon, who was now attempting to wedge herself into the empty teacup Holly had left on the counter. “And you’re certain of this?” he asked, voice lighter than the intent she could see behind his eyes.

“I am,” Rhaenys said. “Holly calls her a Teacup Dragon. A miniature breed from her lands that grow no bigger than a mouse. Zeezee’s well-fed, well-kept, and utterly at home here. If she’s in this shop, it’s because she wants to be. The baker didn’t steal her and if you’re wise, you won’t try to separate them.”

Daemon’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed fixed on the little beast. “A dragon that small is no weapon. Can’t carry a rider, can’t turn the tide of battle. Useless,” he paused, considering as Zeezee yawned, smoke curling from her tiny jaws. “Though even the smallest fire can find its use. A ship’s sail. A lord’s bedcurtains. A lock that needs melting.”

“You’ve given it far too much thought already,” Rhaenys’ brow arched.

“Curiosity, not intent,” he countered smoothly. “If there’s one, there might be more. Entire broods, perhaps. Did Valyria know of them? Or were they lost with so much else in the Doom?”

“They are native to her lands, not ours as far as you are concerned. You won’t find anymore in any lands you know,” Rhaenys cut him off, her tone sharp enough to bite. “And that is all that matters.”

For a moment his smirk held, but it lacked its usual ease. He sat back, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, gaze lingering on the dragonet. “Strange little thing. Scales and fire all the same. Enough to set a man wondering.”

“Then keep your wonder to yourself,” Rhaenys said coolly. “She’s not yours to claim. Nor will she ever be.”

Daemon’s smile sharpened, sly now. “Which one do you mean? The dragon…or the baker?”

Rhaenys went rigid, her gaze hardening like drawn steel. The air between them seemed to shift, the hum of the shop suddenly taut. “Careful, cousin,” she said, her voice low but edged. “You play with fire enough as it is. Do not reach for what does not belong to you.”

“I only asked a question,” he tilted his head, unbothered, enjoying the way her composure cracked.

“I suggest you leave it be,” she sipped her tea, keeping her tone even. “That girl’s done nothing wrong, and your meddling would do nothing but bring trouble to her door. Do not toy with her cousin. I have no patience for trouble in places I enjoy visiting and she’s good people. If you drag her into your games, I swear by the gods you’ll answer for it.”

For the briefest moment, Daemon’s smirk faltered and Rhaenys felt that sharp, private satisfaction that came from surprising him. He was known for leaving death and chaos in his wake…and here he was, in her safe place, in the company of a young woman Rhaenys was beginning – against all expectation – to adore.

She wasn’t about to let him ruin it.

Daemon attempted to mask his unease by leaning back in his chair, hands steepled. “Have you so little regard for my character?”

“I know you,” Rhaenys returned evenly. “And I know the trouble you court for sport. Leave the girl and her dragon be.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Only watched her, eyes glinting with something between amusement and challenge. Then he gave the faintest shrug, the motion lazy, dismissive. “As you wish, cousin.”

But the gleam in his eyes told her he would keep wondering all the same.

Holly reappeared between them with a plate that smelled like pure temptation. Fresh cinnamon twists, the sugar still glistening, steam curling into the air. She set it down like a peace offering and smiled at Rhaenys.

“Will you be wanting anything else, love?”

Rhaenys shook her head. “This is more than enough. Thank you.”

“Good,” Holly straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “Was Aemma still feeling too down to come visit?”

The question caught Daemon’s attention like a spark to dry tinder, his head tilting sharply toward Rhaenys.

“She’s far too along now to be making the trip herself,” Rhaenys said smoothly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “But I’ll bring something back for her. She also wanted to pass along her thanks – the new tincture you gave her has done wonders for her comfort, and the book has eased both our minds greatly.”

“Oh, so you started reading it?” Holly asked with a bright smile.

“Yes,” Rhaenys nodded as she set her cup down. “I just got to the section about the importance of cleanliness and boiling cloths.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Holly’s face lit up in genuine delight. “Cleanliness is important in every aspect of life, not just childbirth. I’ll get a basket put together for Aemma,” she said and without another word, she hurried back to the counter, already reaching for one of the larger bakery baskets. She clearly intended to send Rhaenys back with a feast of goodies.

Daemon barely waited for her to be out of earshot before he leaned in, voice low but sharp. “The Queen is out of the Red Keep…and across the damn city in a bakery? While she’s carrying?” His eyes were molten with disapproval. “Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how dangerous that could be? And what tincture was she talking about?”

Rhaenys’ eyes narrowed, the heat rising to meet his without flinching. “And who do you think brought me here in the first place?” She said, voice like a blade being drawn

That shut him up for a beat, just long enough for the smell of cinnamon to fill the silence between them.

“That’s not the point,” Daemon pressed, leaning heavy on his elbows like the table between them was all that kept him from making a scene. “You know how many eyes watch her every move. How many tongues wag when she so much as breathes too loudly. If word gets out she’s traipsing around Flea Bottom –”

“She was not in Flea Bottom,” Rhaenys cut in, her tone sharpened to a point. “She was here. With me. With a guard nobody noticed because he knows how to do his job. And she’s safer in this bakery than in half the feasts your brother drags her to.”

“How did she even find a place like this?”

“I’m still not quite certain on the details of her first visit,” Rhaenys admitted, taking another slow sip. “I only caught her after I arrived in this cesspool. She confessed to having visited this small shop for months, I suspect maybe even for more than half a year. I caught her in the courtyard, the one that leads to the narrow stairs along the cliff. I could’ve dragged her back, but I followed instead. Better me than a cutpurse in the dark. And she was determined…I was curious.”

Her gaze flicked around the shop, softer for a heartbeat. “And when she walked through this door, I saw why. Bread, warmth, no titles. Just…peace.”

“And the tincture?” He asked, not looking convinced.

“For her strength,” Rhaenys said finally. She sipped her tea, unhurried, letting him stew. “This child’s taking more from her than most. Holly put together a blend. Peppermint, red clover, nettle leaf, and a few other things I doubt you’d recognize unless you suddenly took up herb-gathering in your spare time. It helps keep her nourished, keeps her energy from sinking too low. And before you ask – no, it will not harm the child. I made certain of it.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted, like he wanted to argue but knew it would make him look a fool.

“She’s been sleeping better since she started taking it,” Rhaenys added, her voice softening just enough to make it clear she wasn’t entirely immune to Aemma’s comfort herself. “And the book Holly gave her keeps her mind from dwelling on what’s to come.”

His gaze flicked toward the counter where Holly was busily packing a box, flour dusting her sleeves and a stray curl stuck to her cheek. “And you trust her with that?”

“I trust her more than I trust you,” Rhaenys allowed herself the smallest smile as the statement landed exactly the way she’d hoped – it hit, and it stung.

Rhaenys set her cup down, the porcelain clicking softly against the table. In truth, she was quietly impressed that Holly had known what to make at all. Most maesters in the city wouldn’t have thought beyond honeyed water and a vague prayer to the Mother. The girl had looked at a queen’s condition and known exactly what was missing – and how to fill the gap – without fuss and without fanfare.

Daemon’s mouth curled, but this time there was no humor in it. “And she still doesn’t know who you are?”

“She doesn’t know who any of us are, not even Aemma,” Rhaenys said flatly, before raising her voice just enough to catch Holly’s ear as the younger woman returned from the counter with a large woven basket lined with patterned fabric. “Tell me, Holly, where is it you come from?”

The baker glanced up from the cinnamon twists she was tucking neatly into place for Aemma. “A different country,” she said easily, and there was no hesitation in her voice, only a quiet fondness. “A good place. Small, green, different. You’d like it, I think.”

“Different how?” Rhaenys asked as she arched a brow.

Holly’s mouth quirked like she was amused by the question. “Well, we’re technically run by a Parliament but we’ve still got a monarchy – though ours is a queen at the moment. Queen Elizabeth the Second,” she went back to her careful wrapping as she spoke. “There’s more education for the common folk, too, and I miss indoor plumbing dearly.”

That earned a quiet snort from Daemon, but Holly carried on without looking up. “Still, I do love King’s Landing. The markets. The sea. The smell of baking bread drifting down the alleys. And there’s something…alive about this place. Messy and loud and hot, but alive.”

Rhaenys accepted the basket when Holly slid it across the table, noting again that the younger woman had given her just enough to picture the place – but not enough to name it.

Rhaenys caught the flicker of amusement in Daemon’s eyes the instant Holly mentioned her ‘Queen Elizabeth the Second.’ It was the sort of look she’d seen on him a hundred times before – a shark circling something he thought would be easy prey.

“A queen,” he said, voice dripping with the kind of mockery he reserved for court politics. “I doubt she’ll rule for long. Or at least not until she finds herself a husband.”

Holly glanced up from where she had moved on to icing the cooled scones, her hands pausing over her piping. The expression she gave him was…complicated. Disbelief, pity, and the faintest twitch of amusement, as if she’d just heard a child earnestly announce that the sun rose because a rooster crowed.

“She’s been ruling for forty-seven years,” Holly said, her tone light but clipped at the edges. “And she’s been married the whole time. Five years before she took the throne, actually.”

Rhaenys hid her smile behind the rim of her teacup. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had Daemon so neatly off his game without even realizing they’d done it.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, one brow arching high. “And why didn’t her husband become king, then?” He asked, drawing the words out like he was humoring her,

The look Holly gave him could have soured milk. “Because he married the heir,” she said, very slowly, as though she were speaking to someone with a head injury. “Which makes him the royal consort. Not the monarch. That’s how it works.”

She didn’t even look at him as she said it. Instead, she just piped the last scone and set it on the counter to finish cooling.

For once, Daemon’s tongue seemed to catch in his mouth. Rhaenys sipped her tea, savoring the rare sight of her cousin looking as though he’d just been caught wrong footed by a baker with flour on her sleeve and not a drop of fear in her eyes.

Holly didn’t stop there.

“And it’s hardly unusual,” she said. “My people have had six ruling queens before her – Mary the First, Elizabeth the First, Mary the Second, Anne, Victoria, and now Elizabeth the Second,” she glanced up briefly to be sure Daemon was listening. “The location of reproductive organs, whether within or without, does not make a ruler. Capability does.”

Rhaenys very nearly choked on her tea. Not because of what Holly had said but because she could see the subtle tightening around Daemon’s mouth, the twitch of his jaw. Her cousin, who had spent his life in a realm where succession and power were near entirely dictated by bloodlines, birth order, and penises, was clearly unused to being told – in a bakery of all places – that the seat of power was not between one’s legs.

Holly, oblivious to the shift in the air, moved onto her next set of scones as if nothing of consequence had been said.

Chapter Text

It was one of those rare afternoons when the shop felt like it belonged entirely to me.
No clang of mugs, no scrape of chairs, no queue winding out the door. Just the quiet hiss of the kettle, the tick-tick of the cooling ovens, and Zeezee snoring somewhere in the rafters.

I’d already done the washing up, stacked the chairs, and swept the floors so well you could’ve eaten off them…though given this city, I wouldn’t recommend it. The late autumn light spilled through the shutters, warm gold on the table where I’d set my tea, my latest book, and a plate of biscuits I fully intended to keep for myself.

The street outside had its usual background noise – cart wheels, gossip, some kind of argument about fish prices – but it was muted, far away. For once, King’s Landing wasn’t trying to crawl in under my skin.

I’d just cracked open my book when the front door gave its cheerful little chime.
Not the booming knock of the Goldcloaks, not the soft click of a neighbor coming for bread. Just…polite.

Lorent ducked through the doorway like a man expecting to get in trouble for it. He had his helmet under one arm, his other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and the look of someone who hadn’t quite decided if this was a social call or an interrogation.

“Afternoon, Captain,” I said, setting my book aside. “If you’re here about your men eating three baskets of bread rolls on credit, you can tell them it’s already paid for. I sent the bill to the whomever is in charge of your payroll and poor life choices.”

That got me the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the Lorent equivalent of a belly laugh as he eyed me, my tea, and my book before taking the seat across from me. “That would be the royal family, but I’m not here for that.”

“Then it must be something important. Biscuit?” I slid the biscuits across the counter in his direction.

He hesitated, which told me it probably was important, and then took one, leaning on the table like he had all the time in the world. “Haven’t seen you down at the courtyard fountain.”

“That’s because I’ve no need to stand elbow-to-elbow with half the city while they scrub linens and gossip,” I said, pouring him a cup of tea before he could protest. “I’ve got a little fountain of my own. Suits me fine.”

“Fair enough,” Lorent shrugged, slow and deliberate. “Though sometimes it’s safer in a crowd. You still getting strange visitors?”

“Oh, you mean your friend?” I tried to keep my tone light, though Zeezee had woken up overhead, her little claws clicking against the rafters like she was listening in. “He’s been in a few times. Never says much, but he does eat more now. Guess I’m a good influence.”

I didn’t mention how the room always emptied the second he stepped through the door, like customers had suddenly remembered pressing appointments with the Seven. Or how the first time Rhaenys had shown up right after him, she’d waved a hand and said he was her cousin, and then promptly dragged him into the corner for a whisper-fight that had the heat of a forge and none of the subtlety they thought it did.

And if Rhaenys was Aemma’s cousin, and Daemon was Rhaenys’ cousin…did that make him Aemma’s cousin too? Or her brother? The family tree here was less a tree and more a loaf of twisted bread dough, and I’d given up trying to keep track before I burned something in the oven.

It all gave me the same uneasy déjà vu as certain very respectable wizarding families who liked their branches a little too close together.

Lorent gave me a long, unreadable look over the rim of his teacup. “That man could eat a dozen loaves and you still wouldn’t know the half of him.”

“Good thing I don’t need to,” I said, plucking a biscuit off the plate before Zeezee could swoop down and steal one.

We drank our tea in companionable quiet after that, the sunlight sliding lower across the counter, the city’s noise staying exactly where it belonged…outside. Still, I caught Lorent watching me over the rim of his cup again, the way he sometimes did when he was measuring his words.

“What?” I finally asked.

“Nothing,” he said, a beat too quick. “Just…I’m not sure what to make of him, that’s all.”

“You don’t know what to make of your friend?”

Lorent’s mouth twitched. “If you want to call him that,” he said taking another slow sip, as though that might cover the fact he clearly wanted to say more. “Let’s just say he’s the sort of man who doesn’t show up anywhere unless he’s decided it’s worth his time. And if he keeps coming back here…” he trailed off, the weight of his gaze making it clear he was considering what that meant.

“Well,” I said, leaning back on my stool. “If his reason is cinnamon twists and tea, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I doubt he’s after cinnamon twists,” Lorent said as set his cup down with deliberate care.

“Oh, thanks,” I muttered. “There goes my bakery pride.”

One corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Be careful with him. Men like that don’t circle a place without a reason.”

“Then I’ll keep the kettle on,” I said lightly, though Zeezee shifted above me, restless, like she’d caught the part I wasn’t admitting…that his reason might not have anything to do with tea at all.

That earned me a quiet huff of amusement, but it didn’t chase away the faint furrow between his brows. He set his cup down and, with the sort of deliberate shift people make when they’re changing the subject on purpose. “Tournament’s coming next week.”

“And?” I raised a brow.

“And that means more people in the city. More drinking. More tempers running high,” his gaze swept the shop slowly, taking in the polished counter, the neatly stacked baskets of bread, the quiet corner where Zeezee was draped like a gargoyle over the rafters. Then his eyes came back to me. “I’m putting extra patrols in the area. I’d like a few of them close enough to keep an eye on this place.”

“Close enough,” I repeated. “But not inside?”

“Not inside,” he confirmed, almost grimly. “You’ve got your customers, my men are not to be one of them while on duty. I don’t want them putting their boots on your floor unless there’s trouble – but I’d rather not hear you were caught in the middle of a brawl because someone mistook your door for a tavern, or worse, an extension to the brothel.”

“Captain, if they start a brawl in my shop, it’ll be because they’re fighting over the last lemon bun,” I took a long sip of tea, hiding my smile.

That earned me one of his rare, almost-smiles. The kind that tugged at one corner of his mouth before he smoothed it away, like it had gotten out without permission.

“Just humor me,” he said after a moment, leaning back in his chair. “You know what it’s like after these things. Even good men turn reckless when the wine’s flowing and the betting starts. I’d rather not see you dealing with that on your own.”

“On my own?” I raised a brow. “Zeezee would like to have a word with you about that.”

His eyes flicked to the rafters where the tiny dragon lazily lifted her head, blinking at him like she was already judging his odds in a fight.

“I stand corrected,” he said dryly.

I set my cup down and leaned my elbows on the table. “Alright, fine. I’ll humor you. But only because you asked nicely. And because it might be fun to watch you fret over me like an old auntie.”

Lorent gave me a flat look. “An old auntie?”

“Mm-hm. You’re hovering, Captain. Next thing I know, you’ll be sending me home with jars of pickled beets and unsolicited advice about my love life.”

That earned me a slow exhale through his nose – his version of a laugh. “If I were an old auntie, I’d be telling you to close the shop during the tourney altogether.”

“And miss out on drunk men with more coin than sense? Perish the thought.”

His mouth twitched again, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took another measured sip of tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. “Still, I’d keep your wits about you. The tourney draws all sorts. Nobles, sellswords, pickpockets…the kind of men who’d think nothing of walking out with half your stock if you’re not looking.”

I tilted my head, pretending to think it over. “Then I’ll just keep looking. Problem solved.”

“At least promise you’ll lock up early if things turn ugly,” he huffed, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to win this one outright.

“Deal,” I said, because it was easier than letting him stew. “But only if you promise to stop by and tell me all the gossip about who’s won, who’s lost, and who fell off their horse in spectacular fashion.”

That finally got me a real smile. It was brief, but genuine. “That I can do.”

Lorent set his cup down and stretched his shoulders like a man already dreading the week ahead. “It’s shaping up to be a big one. Riders coming in from the Reach, the Stormlands, even a few from the Free Cities. The inns are full, the streets are packed, and the list of competitors is long enough that the jousts might run from dawn to dusk.”

“Sounds exhausting,” I said, pouring us both another cup. “All that effort just to knock each other off horses.”

“That’s the point,” he said dryly. “The crowd loves it. Glory, skill, a bit of blood – it’s a good show. And it’s not just the jousts. There’ll be melee, archery, feats of arms…the whole city’s treating it like a festival.”

“Festival means more customers,” I said thoughtfully, already thinking about upping my lemon bun production.

“It also means the sort of men who get drunk on victory,” he countered, “and drunk on wine, and decide the nearest bakery is a good place to settle an argument about who’s the better swordsman.”

I raised my cup in mock salute. “To your extra patrols, then.”

“To your good sense, if you have any,” he grunted.

“I’ll let you know when I find it,” I said sweetly.

His gaze flicked down, catching on the book lying open on the table between us. “If you’re set on pretending you’re not a noblewoman in disguise, you might want to hide that. A volume bound like this? It’ll give you away faster than your manners.”

“Please,” I closed it with a neat snap and arched a brow. “It’s hardly some great tome of wisdom. Just a sappy little love story. Pretty binding, empty pages.”

“That makes it worse,” he said, sounding more scandalized than if I’d confessed to smuggling weapons. He gestured at the book like it had personally offended him. “Do you know what you’re holding? A book like that isn’t knowledge, it’s indulgence. A ledger, a chronicle, even a maester’s treatise at least justifies its ink and parchment. But a story? A romance?” He shook his head, disbelief plain. “That is a luxury piled on top of luxury. The sort of thing only the wealthiest ladies can waste their coin on.”

“And yet here it sits,” I tapped the cover with one finger, leaning on my elbows. “In my flour-dusted little shop. Miracles abound.”

“You brandish it openly,” his frown deepened. “If anyone wanted proof you were playing at something above your station, that book alone would do it. Where did you even get such a thing?”

“I have my ways,” I said airily, ignoring the bite of truth in his words. “And if you’re that curious, I’ll let you borrow it when I’m done.” I let a beat hang, letting my smile slip toward wicked. “Though fair warning, it’s not exactly fit for septas’ eyes.”

“Gods preserve me,” he muttered, clearly regretting bringing it up at all. A flush had crept up the back of his neck before he straightened sharply, as if refusing to rise to the bait. “I’ll…check in again before the lists open. And keep the back door bolted.”

I waved him toward the door. “Yes, Auntie Lorent.”

This time, he didn’t bother hiding his laugh.

Chapter Text

By midmorning, I was ready to admit Captain Lorent had been right.

The city had a certain…vibration about it. The kind you could feel in your teeth. It wasn’t the normal market-day bustle or the cheerful hum of a festival. No, this was sharper, faster…louder. People were already flushed from drinking, shouting over one another, moving in packs. Every time the wind shifted, I caught the tang of roasted meat, spilled ale, and the unmistakable metallic scent of weapons oil.

From my rooftop balcony, I could see the tops of the lists in the distance, flags snapping in the breeze. I took my morning coffee there, on the cushy recliner and my book in my lap. Zeezee stayed inside, as she was wanting to do lately. All the hustle and bustle seemed to annoy her more than anything.

The closer the hour crept toward the first tilt, the more the streets filled with a mixture of excited spectators, swaggering knights, and the sort of hangers-on who only came for the gambling. By the time I’d opened my shop, just at the beginning of sunrise, the line outside my doors already stretched down the alley and around the corner.

I’d done my best to keep the shop a safe haven. Calm, warm, and smelling of cinnamon rather than of sweat and horses. The extra Goldcloaks Lorent had stationed nearby made themselves conspicuous without actually stepping through my door, which I appreciated. It let my regulars feel at ease, and it gave the rowdier types pause when they passed.

Zeezee perched on the top shelf by the front window like my own scaly gargoyle, her eyes tracking every loud or unusually shiny passerby. I’d warned her about setting anyone’s cloak on fire, but the tail flicks said she’d reserve the right to ignore me.

By midday, I’d served three dozen hand pies, two full baskets of rolls, and an alarming amount of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. The extra patrols had already stepped in twice – once to stop an argument between a man who’d ‘accidentally’ fondled another man’s wife, and once to shoo off a drunk was affronted about the fact that I did not serve alcohol in my ‘tavern’ as he called it.

By the time the first roar from the lists rolled down the street, I knew for certain that without those patrols, I’d have been knee-deep in trouble before the first tilt’s dust even settled.

The first wave hit just after the first tilt ended.

They came in laughing, loud, and trailing the scent of dust and horse, one of them still carrying a dented helm under his arm like a trophy. Two wore the sort of livery that said they were squires, the third wore no colors at all but had the smug grin of a man who’d just won something – or at least bet correctly.

They ordered meat pasties, two jugs of small beer – which I aggressively set a tea pot down instead and eyeballed them into silence – and a plate of sweet buns ‘for luck’. I didn’t ask what the luck was for, but Zeezee stared so hard at one of them that he finally leaned down to whisper, “Does it bite?”

“Only if you touch her scones,” I said, sliding the plate between them.

The second wave stumbled in not ten minutes later – and I do mean stumbled. One had blood on his cheek, another was missing a boot entirely. They were less rowdy, more winded, and smelled strongly of something that wasn’t quite wine.

“What happened to you?” I asked, already fetching mugs.

“Fence broke,” the shoeless one said, still breathing hard. “Horse went right through. Nearly flattened me to death. Surprised I didn’t break my leg!”

I handed him his drink. “Well, that explains why you came here instead of the tavern. Fewer horses.”

By the time the third wave rolled in – this lot carrying a banner that I suspect they ‘liberated’ from somewhere – I’d given up on the idea of a quiet afternoon entirely. The Goldcloaks outside were watching my door now, ready to step in at the slightest hint of trouble.

And for all my stubbornness about not wanting them inside, I couldn’t help but be glad they were there.

The fourth wave didn’t so much arrive as part like the bloody sea for one man to walk in.

The chatter died down in a ripple, cups paused halfway to mouths as the door swung shut behind him. He cut an imposing figure – full armor, polished bright enough to catch the light from the front window, the edges catching little flares of gold over the black where the sun hit. Across the breastplate, a snarling dragon had been etched in curling, knife-sharp detail, its wings fanned wide as if it were about to leap free.

His helm was tucked under one arm, his pale hair tied back in a neat tail that probably took longer to arrange than my entire morning prep. I could feel eyes flicking between him and me, the weight of unspoken curiosity settling over the room like a thick blanket.

“Lorent’s friend,” I said automatically, brushing flour from my hands. He always had this small twitch in the corner of his mouth whenever I greeted him by his new title instead of his name. I’d stop when he got annoyed of it…probably. “I like the dragon. Very ‘don’t mess with me’ without being gaudy. Hard balance to strike.”

“Glad it meets your approval,” Daemon said, strolling right up to the counter like this was his personal court. He leaned an elbow on the polished wood as though he owned it. “I’m here for your favor.”

“My what now?”

“Your favor.”

“That’s not an answer,” I said flatly, narrowing my eyes. “Are you ordering something? Because it sounds like you’re ordering something. And you haven’t paid for the last –”

“Not bread, woman,” he cut in, smirk twitching at the corners like he was trying not to laugh. “Your favor. For the tilt.”

I stared at him, waiting. Blinking didn’t produce any more information. “Still not getting it.”

From the corner by the window came the sound of someone clearing their throat. “It’s…a ribbon. Or something personal, like a flower woven crown. Knights wear them to show whose favor they ride under.”

The explanation was delivered in the tone of a man both deeply entertained and terrified of getting dragged further into the conversation.

“Oh,” I said slowly, turning back to Daemon. “And you want mine?”

“That was the general idea.”

I glanced around the shop. The place had gone suspiciously quiet – the kind of quiet that hummed, full of eyes pretending to be fixed on mugs, crumbs, or the middle distance. Every single patron was performing the ancient art of minding their own business while very much not minding their own business.

Even Zeezee had stilled in her perch above the counter, head cocked like she was waiting to see how this played out.

With a shrug, I reached up, tugged the yellow ribbon free from the base of my braid – it had been falling out half the day anyways – and let it dangle from my fingers for a beat before tossing it across the counter. “There. Try not to lose it.”

He caught it one-handed, all unnecessary flourish, and looped it around his upper arm like it was a strip of priceless silk instead of something I used to keep my hair out of the butter. “Afraid I’ll have to win now,” he said, smoothing it into place. “Wouldn’t want to shame the colors.”

“You’ve already got a dragon stamped across your chest,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Pretty sure no one’s going to forget you’re dangerous if you trip off your horse.”

He snorted, just enough for the corners of his mouth to twitch. “Trip? Is that what you think I do in the lists?”

“I think,” I said, tilting my head. “That if you come back here later covered in mud, I’ll know exactly what happened.”

We grinned at each other – not flirting, not posturing, just the sharp, easy spark of two people who’d figured out they could push without either one breaking. Around us, the shop held its breath like they were watching something scandalous instead of a grown man in armor getting teased by a baker with flour in her hair.

He gave the ribbon one last pat, straightening like he was already picturing himself in the lists. “I’ll return it in one piece.”

“You’d better,” I said, shooing him toward the door. “And don’t come back with it smelling like horse, I’ll have to boil it.”

That earned me an amused little hum as he turned away.

“And don’t get knocked on your arse in the first round!” I called after him. “I don’t hand those ribbons out to just anyone!”

A single, deliberate pause at the threshold – the tilt of his head said I heard that – before he stepped into the sunlight and was gone. The moment the door shut behind him, the air in the bakery shifted like someone had lifted the lid off a simmering pot.

“Was that –?”

“It had to be.”

“Seven hells, does she even know –”

“Was that really the Pr –”

“– gave him her favor –”

The whispers fizzed and tangled together, overlapping in the way gossip always does when no one actually knows the whole story.

I, meanwhile, slid the next tray of rolls out of the oven and onto the counter, catching Zeezee before she could nose at the steam. “All right,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “Who’s next?”

Because whatever they were buzzing about, it clearly wasn’t important enough to interrupt a fresh batch of bread.

Chapter Text

It was late enough that the city should’ve been asleep – or at least too far into its drinking to be this noisy. I’d been closed for hours, the shop dark but for the glow from the kitchen, where I’d just finished lining tomorrow morning’s loaves in neat little rows on the prep table. Flour on my apron, hair a mess, mind already halfway to bed.

That was when the bells started.

Not one, not two – all of them. Clanging and echoing off the stone like the city had decided to wake the gods and demand answers. I froze, loaf in hand, trying to remember if this was the ‘fire’ pattern or the ‘everyone panic’ pattern.

No one was running in the streets, so I took that as a good sign. But the girls next door looked sad when I poked my head out. Lysa caught my eye, shook her head, and then went back inside without a word. Not an emergency then, but not good news. Lysa would probably tell me tomorrow, and tease me for once again not understanding another Westerosi custom.

The bells rang for hours, and I was just about finished with cleanup and prep for tomorrow morning when the banging on my door started. Not a polite tap. Not a customer-who-forgot-their-change knock. This was the kind of pounding that said open up before I kick the door in.

I edged toward the front, wiping my hands on my apron, and peeked through the glass.

Daemon, or as I still thought of him – Lorent’s friend.

Full armor nowhere in sight, hair a windblown mess, eyes unfocused in a way that said he’d been on a first-name basis with whatever passed for strong drink around here. And under the drink, under the swagger, something else. He looked…wrong.

Not hurt, exactly. But upset enough that it had driven him straight to my doorstep. I unlocked the door before he could rattle it off its hinges.

“Gods, woman,” he muttered, stumbling past me like he owned the place. “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” I said dryly, closing and bolting the door again. “Didn’t realize I was on call for drunk emergencies.”

He dropped into the nearest chair with all the grace of a sack of flour hitting the floor, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low for a moment like the weight of whatever he was carrying might push him clean through the floorboards.

“You want water?” I asked.

“No,” the word came rough, quick, without looking up.

“Bread?”

He started to answer no again, I could tell with the way his mouth pursed, but he paused instead. “…maybe.”

I moved behind the counter, cutting into one of the still-warm test loaves I’d baked earlier – the rosemary one I was becoming fond of as I narrowed down the ingredient portions – sliding a thick slice in front of him along with a mug of water anyway.

“Eat first,” I said, because feeding people was easier than prying them open. “Then tell me why you’re trying to knock my door off its hinges in the middle of the night.”

For a long moment, he just stared at the bread like it was an opponent he wasn’t sure how to tackle. Then he dragged a hand through his hair, leaned back, and finally met my eyes. Something in his expression made me forget the assault he had just performed on my door.

For a moment, the only sound was the bells outside, their clang bleeding through the shutters like they were trying to get in. Then Daemon’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Heir for a day,” he said, the words bitten off like they’d burned on the way out.

“What does that mean?” I asked with a frown.

He leaned back, armorless now but still managing to look like he was carrying enough steel to drag him under. “Aemma delivered this morning. The baby didn’t make it through the day.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest, knocking the air out of me.

I sank into the chair opposite him without meaning to, my apron bunching awkwardly in my lap. “Oh…”

Images rushed unbidden. Aemma’s careful smile, the way she’d pressed a hand against her back as she sat down, the softness in her voice when she spoke about what was coming. All that hope, snuffed out before it had a chance to breathe.

My hand went to my mouth, useless against the sting in my eyes.

Across from me, Daemon looked carved from stone, his sharpness worn down to something grim. For once, he wasn’t unreadable; the grief was there, if you knew where to look.

Daemon’s gaze slid past me, unfocused. “Everyone was out celebrating, competing, enjoying the tourney,” he said, voice rough. “There was so much noise in the streets…laughter. And she was…they were…” His jaw worked, the words thinning to nothing.

I didn’t know what to say to that. There wasn’t a right thing to say, and anything wrong would taste bitter the second it left my mouth. Grief is a sharp thing. Too sharp for clumsy hands like mine.

So I did what I always do when words won’t work. I stood, because movement is safer than silence.

“Tea,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. “Strong enough to make your teeth hum.”

He didn’t argue, didn’t so much as twitch. Just watched me cross to the counter with that same far-off look, like he wasn’t really seeing me at all. Like he was staring straight into a place he’d rather not be.

The kettle was still warm from earlier, and the familiarity of the task steadied me. Scoop the leaves. Set the pot. Let the water run, the steam curl. The quiet clink of mug to counter was a small, steady sound in the middle of all that hollow, tolling bell-noise outside. I clung to it.

It was easier to focus on steeping tea than to think about the fact that, somewhere in the city, a mother was lying in a bed without her child.

By the time I set the steaming mug in front of him, I’d even managed to dig out the plate of honey biscuits I’d been saving for tomorrow’s morning rush. They were still soft, sticky at the edges where the glaze hadn’t quite set. I set them down between us like they might stand a chance against the weight sitting on his shoulders.

“You, eat,” I said firmly, sliding them over. “You look like you’ve been through war and then drank half the city trying to forget.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but at least it was something. He wrapped both hands around the mug like he needed the heat more than the tea.

I sat back down, tucking my legs up under me. “I’m…I’m sorry about your loss.” Because if I was remembering correctly, Aemma was his cousin…or his sister-in-law? His aunt? I couldn’t quite remember how Daemon was related to Aemma, but I knew he was Rhaenys’ cousin for certain. And Rhaenys was Aemma’s cousin. Maybe everyone that went grey prematurely really was related.

He cut me a sharp glance. “Not mine.”

“Right,” I hesitated. “She’s…she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took a long sip of tea, the steam curling around his face.

“Eat,” I said, sliding the plate a little closer to him like I was afraid he might bolt. “And don’t you dare tell me you’re not hungry. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal all day, and I don’t care if you’re a grown man or a visiting dignitary or whatever. You’re not leaving my kitchen until you’ve got some sugar in you.”

It was the same tone Mrs. Weasley used to take with me when I was younger – equal parts warm blanket and immovable brick wall – and it worked just as well now as it had then.

Daemon gave a quiet snort, startled like the sound had surprised him, but he picked up a biscuit anyway. He didn’t look at it, just rolled it between his fingers for a long moment before taking a bite. His eyes flicked up, just enough sharpness in them to remind me of a knife edge.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he muttered.

“And yet you keep coming back,” I said, reaching for the teapot.

That got me the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth – so small I might’ve imagined it – before he started speaking.

“She was saved,” he said abruptly, like we’d been in the middle of the conversation all along. “By that stupid book you gave her.”

I froze halfway through pouring my own tea, the stream of amber liquid wobbling dangerously close to the rim. “…saved?”

He nodded once, still chewing, jaw working like it took effort. “Rhaenys had been reading it. She left the tourney after my brother did – took the book with her. The maester was calling for knives, they were going to cut her open. But my cousin –” his mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and a grimace. “My cousin beat him to it. Took one look, called in Aemma’s handmaiden, and between the two of them, they got her through it.”

I eased back into my chair, tea forgotten entirely, my hands still curled around the empty cup like I needed the anchor.

“The boy was in breech, they said,” he went on, voice roughened now, scraping like gravel. “Would’ve been the end of her if they’d cut her open. But she lived. Gods help me, she lived.”

He stared down into his biscuit as though the right words might be hidden in the crumbs. The next came quieter, the sharp edges worn away. “The babe…he was small, weak. Couldn’t catch a breath. Aemma held him until he was gone,” his eyes flicked somewhere past me, unfocused. “He never saw the sun set…”

The words sat heavy in the air, like they’d stolen all the light from the room. My chest gave that sharp, inward pull, the kind that makes it hard to breathe for a second. I’d heard loss described a hundred ways, but never so simply.

And that was when it really hit me. I’d been giving honey biscuits to a woman I genuinely liked. Calling her love. Selling her scones. Lending her tinctures. All those small, ordinary kindnesses suddenly felt breakable in my hands.

I swallowed, the sound loud in my own ears. “Aemma’s alive. That’s what matters right now,” I said, and I meant every word. No one deserved to go through what she just had. The rest…the grief, the questions, that could wait until tomorrow.

“Right,” I said briskly, pushing to my feet. “Up you get.”

He blinked at me. “What –”

“Nope. No arguments,” I said, herding him toward the stairs with all the subtlety of a sheepdog on a mission. “You’re exhausted, half-drunk, and you’ve got that look in your eyes like you’re about to make some Very Bad Decisions if left unsupervised. Upstairs. Bed. Now.”

“Woman,” he said, more frayed than fierce. “Mind your tongue. Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I outrank almost everyone in this city.”

“Well, then you can take it up with the city in the morning,” I said, nudging him toward the stairs. “Right now you can outrank the bed by getting in it.”

That actually got the ghost of a laugh out of him – quiet, surprised – but by the time we reached the small upstairs bedroom, he was moving like all the fight had gone out of him. I pulled back the quilt, gave him the universal don’t you dare argue with me look, and the man sat down like a chastened schoolboy.

“There. Shoes off. Lie down. Try not to drool on my pillow.”

By the time I was sure he was settled, I was already halfway back down the stairs, fishing the chain from around my neck. The little brass key was warm against my palm. One twist in the pantry door lock, a click, and the shelves of flour and jam vanished – replaced by the cool, clean lines of my potions lab…well, the Rooms potion lab that it lets me use and keeps relatively the same every time I visit.

Herbs hung from the rafters in orderly bundles. Jars of roots and seeds glimmered under glass. The workbench waited in the middle, neat and familiar.

I set water to heat, measuring out dried willowbark, valerian, and just enough honey to make it drinkable. The smell of it filled the air – comfort in liquid form.

When I came back upstairs, steaming mug in hand, Zeezee was already curled on Daemon’s chest like a smug, winged paperweight. His hand was cupped protectively around her without him even realizing it.

“Here, drink this,” I said softly, holding out the tea and bullying him into a sitting position until he complied. “Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow morning.”

Once he had finished it, under a severe glare when he tried to be done after a single sip, I tucked him back in and pretended to blow out the ‘candles’ that lit my lamps. “You staying?” I asked Zeezee as Daemon’s drunken snores filled the room. She flicked her tail at me and smiled sadly before leaving them to their rest.

I flicked a quick notice-me-not charm over the bathroom door. The last thing I needed was Daemon wandering in, discovering indoor plumbing, and declaring me a witch. Which, to be fair, wouldn’t be entirely wrong. The Room would sort out a bed for me tonight if it was in a generous mood. If not, well…I’d slept in worse places.

Chapter Text

The morning found Daemon Targaryen somewhere he had never expected to wake – in a bed that smelled faintly of cinnamon, sugar, and clean linen, with a blanket tucked so tightly around him he could barely move without feeling like he was wrestling a sail in high wind.

The ceiling above him was high and vaulted, painted in soft shadow by the sunlight spilling in through the narrow window on the roof of all things. Too bright. Far too bright for his taste, the kind of light that made the back of his eyes throb. He closed them briefly, forcing the previous night’s memories to line up in some sort of order.

Bells tolling like war drums. Too much wine, not enough sense to stop drinking it. The long walk through streets that blurred into each other.

Holly’s shop. Holly herself, sharp-tongued, quick-handed, bustling about with the confidence of someone who’d never once been impressed by a crown or a title. His armor was gone. Not tossed in a heap as it would be in his chambers, he remembered taking it off somewhere…a brothel maybe. He can’t remember.

A small tray sat beside the bed, a hunk of bread still radiating the ghost of its warmth, a dish of amber honey, and a mug of tea that gave off a scent so fierce it could probably scour barnacles off a hull.

A faint sound drew his attention – a soft, almost kittenish snuffle. At the foot of the bed lay the tiny dragon, Zeezee, curled into a coil of bronze and fury, tail looped around herself like a cat. A lazy ribbon of smoke trailed from her nostrils, dissipating in the sunbeam. She twitched in her sleep, wings giving a brief, papery flutter before settling again.

Daemon sat up slowly, dragging a hand over his face. His head pounded, his mouth felt as dry as old parchment, and he still couldn’t quite decide whether to be annoyed or begrudgingly appreciative of the previous night’s events. He wasn’t accustomed to being manhandled like an errant boy who’d outstayed his welcome at the feast table. And yet…

The memory came uninvited. Holly standing over him in the shop, hands planted on her hips, looking up at him like she’d faced down taller men and found them equally tiresome.

The sharp command to drink the tea after she marched him upstairs herself. And the truly infuriating part? He’d obeyed without thinking. Gods help him, he’d let himself be shepherded to bed like a sulking child…and slept.

The latch clicked and the door swung inward without so much as a knock.

Holly leaned in, hair pulled up in a twist that already was coming loose to spill wavy curls around her face. “Good. You’re awake,” she said, as if she’d been checking in on him every morning of his life. She didn’t bring a tray, didn’t carry a steaming mug. She just gave the room a brisk glance, like she was taking stock of a storeroom.

“You didn’t drink the tea,” she added, noting the untouched mug on the table with a faint frown.

“It’s still morning,” Daemon said, rubbing at the side of his jaw. “I was…pacing myself.”

She made a noise that was somewhere between disbelief and a laugh, crossing the room to nudge the cup closer to him. “It’s past noon, the lunch rush just finished. And tea is not wine. You don’t sip it like you’re wooing it.”

“You give orders to all your guests?” His mouth quirked despite himself.

“Only the ones who pass out in my shop,” she said, deadpan, before glancing toward the foot of the bed. “And she’s been keeping an eye on you all night, so if you were planning on dying in your sleep, you’ve disappointed her.”

Zeezee, still sprawled across the blanket, gave a lazy huff as if to confirm it.

Daemon looked from the tiny dragon to Holly, some retort balancing on the tip of his tongue…and decided against it. For now. 

He sat up slowly, leaning back against the headboard as he eyed her with a slow, deliberate grin. “If you’d wanted me in your bed, all you had to do was ask.”

Holly didn’t even blink. “If I’d wanted you in my bed, I’d have put you in the one with the draft under the window and the mattress that sinks in the middle.”

“That’s cruel.”

“That’s honesty,” she crossed her arms, chin tilting just enough to be imperious without trying. It was the sort of look that could curdle milk and make bakers’ apprentices confess to crimes they hadn’t committed. “Besides, you were hardly in a position to negotiate accommodations. I could’ve left you face-down on the counter with a note pinned to your tunic reading Free to a Good Home.”

“And yet here I am,” he said, smirk widening as he gestured to the blanket tucked so tightly around him that he looked one twist away from being ready for the oven. “Fed, watered, and wrapped like a prized roast.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You were a tripping hazard, and I was closing up,” she said, already moving toward the door like she had more important things to do than indulge him. She tipped her head toward the tray on the table, bread still warm enough to steam in the morning light. “Eat before it goes stale, or I’ll start charging you for storage. And if I hear even one crumb hit the sheets, you’re changing them yourself.”

Daemon leaned back, still grinning. “For all I know, this is a clever trick to lure me into your bed. Sleep with me, wake up to breakfast…convenient arrangement.”

“Please,” Holly snorted, not even turning around. “I slept downstairs. You hogged my bed like a drunken octopus,” she glanced over her shoulder, one brow arched. “And I’d never be caught in bed with you. My reputation couldn’t survive the scandal, and frankly, neither could my laundry. Now finish your breakfast, get up, and put your boots on. I’ve got plans, and they don’t involve babysitting a hungover manchild in my home.”

With that, Holly was gone, door swinging shut behind her, her footsteps retreating down the stairs in an easy, unhurried rhythm.

Daemon stayed where he was, staring at the space she’d just vacated. It was…disorienting. Not the hangover – that was expected – but her. The unbothered way she’d spoken to him, the complete lack of awe or calculated interest.

She’d been earnest. Kind, even. Rhaenys had been right about her. Holly was good people. And in his experience, good people either didn’t last long in King’s Landing…or they weren’t nearly as good as they seemed.

What unsettled him most wasn’t that she hadn’t fallen for his charms, it was that she hadn’t tried to use him, either. She’d had him drunk, unarmed, in her bed. If she’d wanted, she could have done what others had done before. Tried to kill him or tangle herself up with him, end up carrying his child – or claiming as such at least – and let Viserys’s gold make the problem quietly disappear.

It wouldn’t have been the first time his brother had paid a woman to leave and never speak of their dalliance with him.

But Holly hadn’t so much as hinted at it. Instead, she’d just…tucked him in. Daemon wasn’t sure what to make of that. And he hated not knowing.

He dragged a hand down his face, then wrestled with the blanket that had apparently sworn fealty to him overnight. The thing clung like it was enchanted. By the time he freed himself, the tiny dragon at the foot of the bed cracked one eye open, yawned, and promptly went back to sleep.

“Useless creature,” he muttered, swinging his legs to the floor. “A disappointment to your kind, and it has nothing to do with your size.”

Zeezee flicked her tail in reply, a lazy curl of smoke escaping her nose.

Daemon stood, scanning the room with a soldier’s reflex more than curiosity. That’s when he noticed a narrow door tucked into the wall to the left, one he could’ve sworn hadn’t been there the night before, but that was only perhaps because he had been far too drunk to notice it.

The latch gave easily under his hand, and cool afternoon air slipped in. Beyond it, a set of narrow stairs clung to the side of the building, winding steeply upward between weathered stone and shuttered windows. He followed them, boots scraping quietly on the steps, until the narrow climb opened onto a small flat section of roof behind the vaulted ceiling that shielded the room he had just come from.

There was little more than a single chair and a round iron table, both worn but clearly well cared for, tucked between the exterior wall of the vaulted roof, and the decorative wooden banister that had planter boxes overflowing with flower, herbs, and creeping vines that spilled down the railings like a leafy green curtain. It had a soft, cozy, and secluded feel to it, but it was the that view stopped him in his tracks.

King’s Landing sprawled before him. Rooftops stacked like scales, smoke curling idly from chimneys, gulls wheeling above the glittering bay. The Red Keep sat distant but unmistakable, its towers catching the light like a crown of pale fire.

For a moment, he just stood there, arms folded, gaze tracing the city that was his birthright and his burden both. Then a sudden clamor from the street below broke the spell, hawkers shouting, carts rumbling, dogs barking.

Daemon exhaled through his nose, turned back toward the door, and descended the narrow stairs once more. The scent of bread and honey met him halfway down, pulling him back toward the quiet, maddening warmth of the little shop…and the woman he still couldn’t quite figure out.

He shut the door behind him and crossed back to the bed, where the tray still waited. The bread was cool now, the honey thickened, but hunger outweighed pride. He tore off a piece and ate in silence, the faint sweetness cutting through the lingering aftertaste of wine on his tongue.

When he glanced toward the foot of the bed, the little dragon was gone. No curled bronze coil, no twitching tail. The door was still closed.

Daemon frowned, chewing slowly. “Clever little wretch,” he muttered, scanning the rafters, the wardrobe, even the shadows beneath the table. Nothing.

Whether she’d found some unseen crack to slip through or was simply hiding, he couldn’t decide which possibility irritated him more. Either way, it confirmed what he already suspected…nothing about this place, or the woman who kept it, behaved by ordinary rules.

He took another bite of bread and let the thought sit with him, heavier than it had any right to be.

By the time he finally made it downstairs fed, booted, and begrudgingly presentable, the shop was already stirring back to life. Lamps glowed warm in the windows, the front latch propped, and the warm baked smells of afternoon were drifting into the street. Holly stood behind the counter in her apron, hair pinned up, sliding a tray of rolls onto the rack with one hand and fussing with the twine wrapped around a heavy cloth-lined basket with the other.

It wasn’t the sort meant for flour or fruit. This one was packed tight, covered, and weighty enough that when she lifted it to test, her shoulder shifted to take the strain. “Finally,” she said, giving him a look like she was checking for smudges before holding the clearly heavy basket out to him. “I’ve been waiting on you.”

“And what am I meant to do with that?” His brows lifted.

“You’re taking it with you,” she shoved the basket against his chest before he could argue. “For Aemma. It’s food, tea, tinctures, a little honey, and one of the heating stones from my oven to keep it all warm. Tell her I’ll visit when she’s ready for visitors. No sooner.”

He glanced down at the weight in his arms, then back at her. “You expect me to play errand boy?”

“I expect you to deliver it,” Holly said evenly, straightening her apron and turning back to the oven. “And to tell her she isn’t forgotten.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it had that steady, immovable quality. The same one she used when telling customers to stop pawing at loaves before they cooled, or Goldcloaks to stop bleeding on her floor.

Daemon tilted his head, studying her. No blush, no fidget, no flutter of lashes. Just calm insistence, as if she’d sling the basket over her shoulder and take it herself if he refused.
It was infuriating…maybe intriguing. Possibly both.

“Fine,” he blew out a slow breath, more for show than anything. “But only because I was already going to visit with Aemma and taking it saves me from listening to you nag and natter on.”

“Wouldn’t dream of nattering,” she said sweetly, though her mouth quirked like she knew she’d won.

The tiny dragon poked her head out of Holly’s apron pocket just then, blinking sleepily before curling her claws over the basket’s lid as if daring him to drop it.

Daemon’s lips curved. Not his usual mocking smirk, but something smaller, edged with amusement. Deliveries, dragons, and demands…somehow this woman always managed to make trouble sound like entertainment.