A/N and WARNING: As always, I feel it's only fair that I warn you of the contents of this story because some of you may not yet realize that it's been appropriately rated M due to the fact that there's all kinds uncomfortable and violent subjects ahead. Seriously.

Jamie had been roaming the Free cities for near eight years now. Three of that spent with the Golden Company, and the last of that as their Captain-General.

Eight years had passed since his father's death. Eight years since the last person who had well truly loved him looked upon him with hatred during an assisted escape from the bowels of the Red Keep. One dreaded revelation from a time when they were both still the manipulated children of an avaricious father, and two brothers had been torn apart.

He could still feel the force of his little brother's small fist as it struck him harder than he would've thought possible for a half-man. One regretted utterance of a confession long past due, followed by a just although heart wrenching reaction, was all it took for Jamie to abandon the rest of his Seven forsaken oaths; he'd lost count of how many of the accursed things he'd collected anyways.

He'd finally found sense enough to renounce the family that had done nothing but cause him misery and bring ruin down upon the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. Fuck if he would stay and watch as the legacy his father had largely held of more import than the wellbeing of his own children came to an ironic and devastating conclusion at the hands of his mad twin.

Fuck the Lions, fuck the Lannister's of Casterly Rock, fuck the Game, and fuck all of Westeros for all the good it did him. He just wanted to forget the blight he'd help bring down upon the world with his blind conformity in assisting his cold father and manipulative sister in their reprehensible scheming.

Now the only thing he could give two golden shits about was making it right with the only one of the whole lot of them who had ever acted as his kin. He had to find Tyrion, the only person who had well and truly loved him as blood should. He had to make him forgive him his blind idiocy.

It wasn't very hard leaving Westeros behind, it certainly wasn't difficult leaving his bitch of a sister and finding passage across the Narrow Seas. It was, however, near impossible to find word of a golden haired Westerosi half-man and have people take him seriously while doing so. He'd spent five years in four different cities waiting and hoping for word when, in need of money, he'd finally been convinced to make his way as a sellsword.

He had become more than proficient with his left hand since his right had been lopped off by the damnable Bloody Mummers, and had even managed to pick up some influence in other fighting styles on his journeys. It wasn't a surprise that he had been eyed as a recruit. He did after all carry with him a Valyrian Steel sword along with enviable golden armor created from the forges of the infamous Street Of Steel. It goes unsaid that of all the possibilities, the Golden Company was where he fit best—he already had the golden mail for fucks sake!

Part of his decision to enlist lie in the fact that that he'd almost certainly hear more word of the world from within the ranks of a company of mercenaries whose line of work required them to be knowledgeable of politics if they wished to find contracts. He wasn't wrong. What he didn't count on was how fast he'd be promoted in the ranks and how much he'd take to it.

Here he wasn't hounded by oaths that would negate one another and consequently cause him to question his moral fiber or leave him branded in infamy for forsaking them. Here he owed no one allegiance but his men, and they were much easier to deal with compared to the grumbling, reluctant, and falsely honorable Lords of Westeros. Seven hells, in Essos and this line of work the name Kingslayer was even looked upon as favorable! People wanted to hire someone capable of bringing down an entire kingdom with its ruler, and that's often what was asked of the Golden Company.

On this side of the Narrow Sea war wasn't about idealism, bravery, and loyalty. It was realistic squabbling, blood and gore, and all for what he was raised to know best—Gold and Power—though he could give two fucks about power as long as the men got their gold. That was after all, the only way to assure their happiness and the safety of his own skin as their commander less the mutinous fucks stab him in the back one fateful day.

Well, gold and whores were what mercenaries ran on he supposed. Cunt to sellswords was as good as gold; too bad it wasn't an easily exchangeable currency unless you possessed one. Promise of one certainly seemed to have a glorious effect in redoubling the efforts of men on the field.

Right now though he wasn't in a brothel fresh from battle, he was there celebrating the draft of a new contract for the company with his officers and to possibly hear word of Tyrion. There had been none since Pentos and Gods know the best place to look for his brother would always be a whorehouse.

The establishment he occupied currently was one the men would no doubt frequent for the duration of their campaign in Volantis, and it did promise to be a long one. Apparently the Triarchs had levied taxes on ships coming down through the Rohyne delta high enough that the cities Qohor and Norvos had combined their might and were marching south to war.

Until their armies got there and the city closed its gates, the men of the Golden Company were free to indulge in all the cunt their coin could pay for. Thus his officers had become fast friends with the Braavosi Madame of the city's finest brothel, and he'd been lured into going with the promise of his captains buying him his pick of whores. He wasn't as enthusiastic about it as Tyrion would've been, but the offer did provide the chance to find release and possibly hear news of the world, and he could save his own coin in the process.

Meandering in after a long line of eager soldiers and finding seats in the main tavern, his nose was assaulted by the staggering scent of incense which was clearly attempting to drown out the reeking undercurrent of sweat, semen, and other bodily ejaculates that no doubt covered every inch of the place. Jamie had never particularly been fond of such establishments. Even at the age of two and forty his looks were still enough for women to throw themselves at his feet. He couldn't help it if his lips curled of their own accord as he observed his surroundings.

To the Madame's credit, the building was nice and the furnishings were lavish. The sounds however and the lecherous desperation rampant in the room stemming from the feigned interest of conniving whores and their lusty customers, was enough to garner his disdain. He exhaled sardonically, resigning himself to his location as he looked over the nude women running about and being pulled into laps, hoping there was one appealing enough that could get him leaden sooner rather than later so he could return to his tents and begin pouring over maps.

His eyes skated past all those light of hair having lost fondness of such women due to bitter memory and landed on what he could only believe was a plump little Dothraki with fierce eyes, copper skin and strong looking thighs. He only tore his gaze away to put on his most charming smile for the Madame as she paraded some women in front of the lot of them, the women bearing tankards of fine Tyroshi pear brandy and settling into laps.

"It is an honor to welcome and welcome back the men of the Golden Company. All at the Nameless Lover are ripe for the picking. Welcome to the finest pleasure house in all of the city." The Madame began in a lilting Braavosi accent eyeing those that had been there before and those that hadn't. "I give you my greatest assurances, if here you can not find a woman matching of your hearts desire then you will find all of Volantis wanting…along with all of Essos, even Lys!" She told them boldly, looking to him after noticing his notorious golden hand and singling him out.

Jamie wanted to snort at the audacious proclamation but settle for a satirical grin instead. "I don't believe my heart will be desiring anything tonight fine Madame, it will be my cock doing all the thinking." He drawled smartly.

The woman took his words in stride and stepped up behind one of her girls, ever the saleswoman. "If it is only your cock you're aiming to please, wishing not for soft touches or sweet words, might I suggest Nyel for the likes of a spirited coupling." She said sweeping the straw colored hair away from a slight girls neck and running a hand down her bare arm fondly and suggestively. The gesture wasn't lost on the men, himself included though to a lesser degree. She wasn't to his liking though the Madame took no notice of the fact. "She is named after one of the three famous bells of her Norvoshi homeland, her keens are said to mimic the sound and lull you into a more intense release."

Jamie saw many of the eyes of his fellow brothers in arms light up at the tall-tale, but he was intelligent enough not to think her words anything but fabrication aimed towards captivating the thick-witted. "I have no doubt one of my fine companions will be hypnotized by what I'm sure is a lovely melody but it will not be me." He told her sarcastically with a detached grin.

A flash of annoyance came across the woman's face, but just as quickly was replaced by a practiced smile. "Does my Lord have specific tastes in mind?" She asked determinedly polite.

Jamie could feel his expression harden and his whole body tense at the murmured formality and he worked his jaw, nostrils flaring slightly. "I would prefer it if you would kindly refrain from calling me 'Lord'." He told her through gritted teeth taking care to make sure his voice didn't sound as tense as his muscles felt at the moment. "I gave up my titles and what remained of my accursed honor when I left Westeros and that is where I would have it die."

He was no Lord, nor was he a knight, and he didn't want to be mistaken for one or find himself slave to the vows that at one point would've had him overlook people who couldn't defend themselves, those he was sworn to protect as defender of the realm, in favor for a Mad King who would burn them all alive.

The woman blinked at him, startled at his gruff tone. "I did not wish to offend you my Lor—" She stopped herself and searched the ground looking for a way to suitably address him given his station.

He smirked mirthlessly and raised his tankard. "Call me Captain-General, call me Sellsword, call me Kingslayer, or mayhaps even an idiot-shit if you feel so inclined." He took a swig and stretched out leisurely, letting his arms rest on the seatback of the upholstered bench behind him before his expression harden along with his tone. "Do not, however, under any circumstances call me Lannister, Lord, or Ser." His knuckles were white around his tankard, and he knew just how bitter he sounded though he didn't much care. "I would give my other hand before I was ever again tied to that misguided nonsense that passes for culture across the Narrow Sea."

The proprietor considered him strangely before addressing him, although cautiously, "My apologies, I only wish to know what it is you prefer in your women so I can better afford you with a pleasurable suggestion."

The corners of his lips twitched upward in a mockery of a smile as he inclined his head towards her slightly in apathetic acceptance of her apology. His men around him answered her question for him.

"He don' like em' light o' hair." He heard from down the table a ways.

Jamie grinned though it didn't fully reach his eyes and lifted his tankard towards his fellow while keeping his eyes on the woman letting her know there was truth to the statement. "This is true." He agreed with a smirk.

"A man prefers them strong, isn't this so?" He recognized the melodic Lorathi accent of his lieutenant.

In his mind flashed the painful image of a tall, broad woman from Tarth, eyes like sapphires. He did his best not to flinch. "I certainly don't like them soft." He admitted begrudgingly.

Off to the side came another voice. "What about this one? She new, is she?" His man Florhin offered. Jamie looked up as he pulled the only modestly clothed girl in the whole of the room onto his lap. He briefly turned to Jamie, "She what you like?" He asked as he tried to get a peek down her linen shirt while palming one breast and examining the curve of her hip with the other.

Jamie watched as the girl kept her eyes downcast and shied shamefully from his touch, turning herself away as much as she could while obviously trying not to cause incident. His immediate appraisal of her waist length, shiny, wild mahogany curls, and what he could make out of the alabaster skin stretching lithely over elegant muscles from underneath her clothes, was certainly something he'd contemplate.

His considerations however were brought to a screeching halt as the proprietor let out a strangled and seemingly compulsory cry of "NO!" Jamie blinked, startled somewhat by the volume, watching in mild interest as the woman rushed over looking, of all things, scared. "No, she's not one of my girls. She's not for sale." She explained looking flustered and collecting the girl out of Florhin's arms, beseeching her in Braavosi to what he could only assume was leave the room.

He'd never witnessed a pleasurehouse proprietor looking out for a woman's chastity over their own coin purse. He remembered how Tyrion once joked that you could ask the owner of the brothel to bed his best horse, his cook, his wife, and even himself and he would most assuredly allow it if only for the right price. Of course then he'd added that should Jamie doubt his words he need only ask to bed Littlefinger for the price of Lordship of the Rock to find the truth in the statement. Here and now though Tyrion's theory seemed to fail, and his cunning little brother wasn't often wrong. Jamie watched the exchange, his scrutinizing gaze following the girl as she did as was told.

Her posture certainly spoke of someone who had just been chastised and appeared frightened and humiliated. But then he noticed the clenched fists at her sides and he narrowed his eyes glimpsing the way her hips seemed to sway with a bit too much of a dangerous confidence now and again although she shuffled meekly more often than not. His brows furrowed together as he looked back to the Madame questioningly.

"She's my scribe." The woman offered with a forced smile seeming a bit out of sorts as she did. "A new purchase that I wouldn't have ruined less she become distracted from her duties."

Every one of the sellswords but Jamie appeared to take that as excuse enough and they began suggesting women to him again while palming handfuls of soft skin as they did and getting further into their cups all the while.

His thoughts on the other hand continued to linger on the young girl. A brothel in need of a scribe? Really? Did the Madame expect him to believe she kept records of each man, at what price, and for how long it took her girls to drain their cocks? It certainly didn't appear anyone was doing any such thing now that he was taking note of it himself.

He did eventually force the suspicious tingling to the back of his mind and settle on the Dothraki woman he had been admiring earlier. However, when he awoke in camp the next morning to the news that Florhin had passed in his sleep and was found in his tent, his first thought was of the unwilling young scribe girl his friend had pulled into his lap the night before.

The one they called Talea in Lys hadn't been very pleased to discover that the Masters had no intention of letting her return to Braavos after discreetly distributing the Gift to a trader of bed-slaves on behalf of someone willing pay the hefty sum required to hire the Faceless. Talea, who wore a face of silvery blond hair and clear blue eyes, wasn't very satisfied in the knowledge that she would have to change appearances and once again move on to another city to practice her skills on behalf of the Guild. Now she was to head to Volantis where three more awaited reception of her Gift before she could journey back North. She longed for Braavos, for home, but she wouldn't neglect the Guild who had taken her in and given her a new life as no one and everyone at once.

It had been three years since she'd graced the hundred islands and canals of Braavos or glanced upon the House of Black and White, and she had ached to do so ever since watching the Titan disappear on the horizon while taking passage to Pentos for her first assignment abroad after near six years as an acolyte and apprentice. It was strange to her that she could miss the land that had welcomed her as their own more so than that of Westeros, more so than that of the home she identified as belonging to the girl Arya Stark.

Even so in the back of her mind, in some place hidden from the Kindly man and even from herself, she could glimpse falling snow and smell the glorious cold of winter. It was a dangerous compartmentalization that had almost cost her her life on a journey to Ibben. Her walls had come crumbling down for just a moment and her guard dropped just enough that she found herself basking in the familiarity of snow like an inexperienced apprentice rather than a superiorly trained weapon of the House of Black and White. As soon as the happiness had faded and the grief ebbed its way back in she had been able to slam the walls back into place. Her outward veneer however, had already slipped back into that of a young girl with sad grey eyes. As a result she had had to change faces and start her task anew.

More and more of late she felt the crashing of winds threatening to break down the barriers she had reconstructed, threatening to break free the girl that long ago she had worked so hard to force to nothingness. She felt that maybe by returning to the Guild after three years she could rebuild those walls and smother the girl. That she could save herself the pain of having all the memories flood back carelessly and fall victim to the emotions they invoked as they could be brought to the surface and work to undermine her training.

Unfortunately, returning to Braavos wasn't in the cards. There was however, one saving grace in being sent on to Volantis. The Golden Company was stationed just outside the city walls and perhaps Gifting the girl known as Arya Stark with the life of the Westerosi Captain-General would be enough to convince her and her demons to remain hidden in the back of her mind until she could return to Braavos and force her out forever.

The she-wolf always seemed to be content to fade away with the spilling of blood, and even if the savagery with which she was compelled to do so wasn't congruent with the subtle ways the Faceless showcased their talent, she indulged the girl if only to keep her at bay. She was afraid of her. No One was only supposed to be delivering three the gift, but to keep Arya Stark away she fully intended on making it four.

Of course she must be careful that one objective didn't hinder the other. And mayhaps it was her being a bit reckless and aiming to subdue the suppressed girl, but using the face of Arya Stark seemed the only proper way to go through with her task, though she would go by the name Talisa.

Talisa spent her days in the market places listening and following like a ghost the servants she observed coming from the manses of the Old-blood for word of the two Elephants of the Triarch. At night she would return to the brothel of the Braavosi Madame whom she had found board with through use of her Iron coin. It was there amongst the whores and their suitors that she listened for word about the third individual of the ruling body of Volantis, a member of the Tiger party, while simultaneously looking out for word of her fourth target, the Lannister.

The mercenaries were naturally forthcoming while seeking out company and cunt. With her own ears, and those Talisa the scribe had befriended, she was able to gather much and more about both the Tiger and the Captain-General, though news of the Kingslayer was rather not what she expected.

The little bits and pieces of information about Jamie Lannister that escaped the crumbling prison in her mind containing Arya Stark, matched up not at all with the words of his Golden brothers in arm.

It was even more particularly disturbing to see him in person and witness the way he spoke of Westeros. He seemed quite bitter, though about what she couldn't seem to puzzle out. He was absurdly offended at being referred to as Lord or Ser and had gone on about honor an awful lot for a Kingslayer. His claim not to prefer the golden hair characteristic of his family given his known incestuous tendencies was more than surprising as well.

It had also been infuriating to find that he had been considering her as a prospect to bed of all things, though the man who had brought her into the conversation on that account had paid dearly with his life. She had been tempted to rip his throat out right there at the table, as she was inclined to do so as her moniker whenever a task allowed. Still she'd kept her composure, barely holding onto her act as the Madame's meek scribe and waiting for the Braavosi woman to take action less she find it necessary to scare her custom away.

After only two days in the establishment she was becoming wholly fed up with its patrons and their inclination to pull her onto their laps and grope her while laughingly telling her she was wearing entirely too much clothing and might they help her out of it. Mayhaps it was because she had spent nearly four months prior to her stay at the Nameless Lover in a pleasurehouse in Lys, but her normally stoic countenance was failing her and she was fast feeling her frustration mount along with Arya Stark's nigh insatiable bloodlust.

She was almost thankful that Madame Meralyn was absent for the evening and that the whore Bethany was to watch over the establishment in her stead because she might now find a way to release her vexations.

So far throughout the evening no one had accosted Talisa the scribe and she was left alone to glide from table to table filling and refilling tankards, using her abilities to remain inconspicuous and only allowing patron's eyes to ghost over her as she eavesdropped on their conversation. Nothing much really came of it until she picked up one particularly useful piece of information pertaining to the Tiger. Apparently he planned to disembark from the city with a contingency of Tiger cloaks, the city guards, and head to Yunkai to speak with the Dragon Queen who had been holed up in Slaver's Bay amassing an army since the city fell four years past. Apparently the Taragryen bitch was loitering and waiting for winter to ravage Westeros and expire before she made her claim.

She was walking away from the table already planning the means by which she would find out more information to assist in inserting herself near the Tiger, Malaquo Maegyr, for his journey when she saw Bethany scurry towards the door to greet a large party of regulars from The Golden Company.

Talisa headed towards the counter behind which they kept the casks of various drink and made a task out of refilling her pitcher while taking note of those who were entering. She was pleased yet suspicious as to why Jamie Lannister was amongst them two nights in a row when it was common knowledge he didn't make a habit out of frequenting such establishments.

After greetings were concluded she saw Betheny scan the room, passing over her twice before finally spotting her and hurriedly making her way to her side with terse instructions to provide the men with drink and keep their cups filled. She nodded to the whore and obeyed, keeping her head down and playing the part of meek Talisa, taking extra care to act wary given the last experience the scribe had with the same group.

She was happy to go unnoticed as she worked her way around the table listening to their gruff manner of speak, but it wasn't long until she felt eyes on her person.

She carefully glanced in her periphery to find gold-green eyes considering her in what she was disturbed to see was a solemn manner. She blinked suddenly as the foreign image of a much younger and frightened girl flashed through her head, a girl who was staring apprehensively into a pair of eerily similar eyes while occupying a room littered with maps and letters; somewhere deep in her mind whispering to her of Harrenhall.

She was only brought back to reality by Betheny who immediately and violently began berating her as she snatched the pitcher out of her hand. It took her a moment to come upon the realization that Talisa had overfilled one of the soldier's tankards and had sloshed some of the good Volantene red wine into his lap. She was just registering the indignant curses of the man when she felt the wind around her change suddenly and had to school her instincts into telling her not to duck away from the backhand that the whore was aiming at her face.

The blow landed squarely on her left cheek and was nothing if not pathetic in its force. She had to work hard to drum up an expression of hurt and humiliation appropriate for Talisa the scribe and school her own lips to prevent from smirking.

Her hand strayed to her face, perhaps a bit too slowly, to grasp at the pitiful mark that was no doubt present on Talisas pale skin as she feigned hurt. She just managed to force her eyes to water by squeezing them shut painfully. Talisa didn't look up to the eyes of the man she had soiled as she gave an abashed curtsy and a meek wavering apology.

"My apologies ser, I lost myself. I meant no insult, truly." She squealed trying for earnestness. What was most distressing was she wasn't lying, she had lost herself. Damn the wolf-girl and her obsessions!

The man didn't even get to say a word before Betheny was offering her own. "Don't doubt for a second that Madame Meralyn will hear of this." She turned to the man, "Your needs will be seen to free of coin this night, you may have your pick of girls of course."

The man seemed to brighten at the thought, but then a sly smile came over his face as he glanced between her and Jamie. "Any girl you say?" When Betheny nodded smiling penitently he grinned and pointed to Jamie. "I'll pay for my own whore and gift the Kingslayer with the little scribe that he was denied his last visit." He said entirely too pleased with himself.

Talisa's eyes widened and before she could stop herself the scribe was forgotten and the assassin lay bare in her gaze as she slowly raised her eyes to Betheny. The woman was about to open her mouth and agree to her own death along with the deal, but before the words could exit her mouth she was drawn to a foreign grey gaze possessing such a depthless rage, such a faceless anger and a danger so profound that her tanned Ghiscari complexion drained completely of color and she sputtered before changing her tune. "I—I'm sorry that just won't be possible." She stammered while glancing back and forth, landing inevitably on Talisa. She was astounded to find the scribe having returned, eyes facing towards the ground meekly once more. Betheny rightfully remained wary as she tried to find the means to explain. "Anyone else. The Madame would have my head for ruining the girl."

The man appeared displeased and swiveled his head about the room clearly trying to find the most expensive looking woman he could. Talisa took it as her chance to make an escape and deftly grasped the pitcher and headed away from the table to circle about the room, once again filling cups. Although this time being careful to avoid a certain area and not so much as lifting her gaze in their direction less she find the eyes that usher memories unbidden from her mind.

She effortlessly dodged reaching hands and ignored the suggestive words directed at her as she continued on with her menial task. Nevertheless, her concentration felt taxed once she recognized the familiar burning sensation of eyes on her back. She had to bite back a younger girls unbidden anger less it get the better of her, and cursed when it distracted No One enough that an exceptionally fast pair of hands managed to pull her into his lap.

She was hard pressed to act the meek serving girl but managed it well enough, squirming around relatively weakly in protest while still attempting to get away, her eyes facing the ground. She stiffened however, eyes flashing, after feeling a cock hardening underneath her and only managed to hold herself back from ripping the offenders throat out by shoving her elbow forcefully into his stomach powerfully enough that his grip let up and she could get away easily.

That wasn't the end of it though. She had managed to embarrass the man and he wasn't inclined to let it go considering he was now the subject of his companions laughter. She held herself back from smirking and kept her head down, working hard to look fearful in her outwardly mortified escape out the back as she lured him into following. Follow he did.

She headed down the alley behind the brothel at a slow pace, Talisa forgotten as No One emerged. The challenging call of the man behind her, her prey, sending a sinister thrill her up her spine and turning her gait serenely insidious. She heard the footsteps trailing behind her picking up pace just as she slipped around the corner. She continued to lead him on a chase until she deemed it far enough away from the brothel to be safe and steered herself into a small alleyway between buildings with no exit.

When her stalker saw he had her cornered he slowed up and smiled banefully, though his expression was nowhere near a match for the hell the she directed at him with her own shadowed gaze. The drunkard was too restless to observe it or play with her more than necessary, so when he was three strides away he lunged at her foolishly.

She easily sidestepped him, withdrawing the small but unbearably sharp knife from up her sleeve and slicing vertically up his throat in one deft flick of the wrist as he charged. With her back turned and choosing not to watch but rather listen, she could hear the familiar sound of her surprised victim choking on his own blood as he tried to grasp when and how he'd become the prey.

After a moment she wheeled around coming up behind him. Reaching over his should with her right hand she flung his own away from the bloodied laceration so she could reach into the warmth of the slit she'd carved out and take hold of his esophagus with her deceivingly strong grip and tear it merciless from his body as she had done to so many before him.

She became drunk off the rush and the knowledge of her own power, her breathing reminiscent of glorious winter gales and in harmony with the sound of every drop of his blood dripping marvelously onto the pavement, his throat still throbbing and twitching in hand. She swore if she listened hard enough she could hear the sound of a wolf howling somewhere way off in the distance, just as she could every time she served someone with the Gift in this manner. The sound of the man dropping weightlessly to the ground was intoxicating and she stepped back to watch him collapse as a heat coiled up through her core and her eyes drank in the sight readily.

When the crimson seeping out from her victim began to slow its captivating ebb across the pavement, the euphoria began to fade and she wiped the blood from her dagger onto the ruined sleeve of her shirt before withdrawing an envelop from a concealed pocket and sprinkling its contents across the corpse while being careful not to touch it. Once the envelope was emptied she brought two pieces of flint together creating a spark that set her victim a' smoldering.

She didn't stay to watch him burn. It was pointless. The powder would ensure he was nothing but ash within the hour and wouldn't flame or draw attention. Instead she turned to the wall and propelled herself up easily with the muscles of her legs, using the small mortar lines in the ancient stone of the building as holds for her small experienced fingers while effortlessly managing to ensure her skirts didn't get in the way of her feet as she scale the wall like the agilest of spiders.

Soon enough she was making her way back to the brothel over rooftops and then lowering herself through the window into Madame Meralyn's personal chambers, the ones she had vacated and given over to the Faceless upon utterance of the axiom 'Valar Dohaeris'. The only appropriate response when confronted by someone from her guild. Every man must serve if they'd rather not perish when presented with the truth of 'Valar Morghulis'—every man must die.

She peeled off her shirt quickly and washed her blood soaked hands in the basin next to the bed before pulling on a fresh tunic and exiting again through the window, dropping back into the alley she departed from beforehand. She strode back into the brothel, No One once again replace by Talisa the meek scribe.

The act didn't seem like anything but second nature now, the way it should've been given her training. There was no gritting of the teeth, or flashing of eyes, it was all hidden behind a mask that the blood helped remain in place. The she-wolf was asleep once more, satiated by the feel of the throat of her prey within her fang like grasp.

When Talisa was called over to the table of sellswords she didn't hesitate more than giving them a wary look that was perfectly justifiable for a girl who had spilled wine into one of their laps and been physically reprimanded. There were only three of them there now, two with women in their laps and then the Kingslayer alone and staring her down, eyeing her more intensely than ever while his fellows were busy playing slap and tickle with whores draped over their persons. She tried to fill their cups and be gone but it seemed he was determined to have words.

"On behalf of the my brothers in arms I think we owe you an apology." The golden haired malapert began mockingly, sipping from his newly refilled tankard and considering her shrewdly over the rim.

She remained meek, maintaining her practiced demeanor while keeping Arya Stark from snarling at the man. "I'm not sure what you mean m'Lord."

He grimaced at the formality and she smiled wickedly on the inside knowing he found it irksome.

He gave her a tight-lipped detached smile, not quite able to hide the threatening gleam in his eyes from one so observant as her. "I mean for my man Florhin. I'm sure you can recall the man from our party who dandled you on his knee." he narrowed his eyes and considered her judiciously though he remained flippant, "the one who felt the curve of your backside and ran his greedy little fingers over whatever meager breasts you have hidden under that tunic." His lack of attempt to phrase it gently was blatant and intentional, and the look he gave her body full of calculated condescension and disdain aiming to make her squirm in discomfort. "You remember him don't you?" He goaded, taking a casual sip from his drink though never letting his gaze stray from hers.

Talisa shuffled her feet warily and let her lips droop into a displeased little frown. "I do. And s'alright now. What's done is done." She said begrudgingly, while in her head she wanted nothing more than to pounce across the table and prick him with the same poisoned needle she'd stuck in his friend leaving him dead in his tent.

She tried to turn around and end the conversation but he stopped her with his words.

"Well isn't that's very kind forgiving of you!" He smirked wickedly.

She nodded, "I must get back to work now m'Lord. Drinks won't be refilling themselves." She tried.

"Quite." He grinned malevolently, still flinching at the title she addressed him with. He waited until she had turned around to speak again. "Actually, I have need of some more wine myself." He forced her to turn back around. His head was tilted to the side as he met her gaze.

She furrowed her brows, as if she were confused as to what game he was playing at. Still, Talisa dutifully stepped forward to fill his goblet. He took a curiously long look at her garb as she did so and when she tried to step away he grabbed her by the wrist.

"I have an unusually large thirst this evening. Mayhaps you should just linger to see that my cup stays full." He told her all humor gone from his eyes, nothing but cunning remaining.

The way he said it was more command than request and she allowed Talisa's nose to flare and a slightly worrisome glint to hover in her eyes as she searched his face acting frightened, as if she were looking for a way out. "Betheny will—"

"Betheny will do nothing now sit." He ordered taking the pitcher and setting it on the table.

She allowed Talisa to quickly take a seat and fix her gaze on the table, as would a girl in her position faced with a powerful man.

Jamie leaned back in his seat as if completely at ease, his tone insouciant. "Is it not strange that Florhin suddenly passed on the night he offered you insult?"

Talisa the scribe blinked and stammered. "No—no m'Lord. I mean, I don't know. Mayhaps?" She shrugged letting her cheeks color but fidgeting intentionally to show surprise and distress.

He leaned forward onto his elbows, his voice gone deadly. "Is it not strange for the proprietor of a brothel to give up her own personal rooms to a young scribe and go ghost white at the thought of a man bedding that same girl?" His tone let her know how odd he thought it and he didn't stop "A girl who is supposedly under her employ and working in a pleasurehouse?" He asked levelly before leaning back suddenly once more. "I myself have never met a Madame who'd shy away from letting someone fuck their daughter given enough coin, and you most certainly aren't even her relative, let alone Braavosi though you do seem to have perfected the accent."

Talisa may still have been frowning confusedly, remaining silent at his line of questioning, but No One was right there on the edge, wary and ready.

Silence dominated for a moment as he looked her dead in the eye. "I knew a girl once. She looked just like you though she couldn't possibly have made it all the way to Volantis considering she's been dead near twenty years now." He fussed with his tankard deliberately before meeting her eye again, scrutinizing her carefully. "Is the name Lyanna Stark of any significance to you?" He asked eyes narrowed but voice light, "Well just the name Stark really. House Stark, Wardens of the North? The Lords of Winterfell?" He feigned true curiosity well. "You do have their look."

She shook her head easily enough though on the inside she was coiled tighter than a spring and restless, feeling a stirring behind the walls she so diligently manned so that they remained erect. "Can't say it means much of anything to me, no." Talisa answered.

"Ah well, that's probably for the best." He took a swig of his drink. "The whole family is dead now and the House fallen." He explained casually. "Lord Ned got his head lopped off by the mad bastard son of myself and my sister, King Joffery. I'm sure you've heard the tale." His eyes were daggers as he gnawed his lips with his teeth agitatedly. "Some say Ned's wife and eldest son met a worst fate though. The Frey's slit their throats at a wedding of all places and decided to defile their corpses as well." He words were sprightly and careless, as if he were discussing the weather.

Talisa remained calm in front of him, expressing appropriate melancholy at the tale, though on the inside No One was battling the threat of certain barriers crumbling as winter ravaged them in their fury.

The Kingslayer continued. "Still, I think the young sons got it the worst," He supposed, still nonchalant, "burned alive by a boy they treated as kin. Fire is such an excruciating way to go don't you think?" He asked not waiting for an answer. "One of the daughters got away for a little while I believe, though she jumped from the Moon Door of the Eyrie after being raped by Peytr Baelish countless times. Can't say I blame her really, the man was a sycophant at the best of times. No ones quite sure what happened to the youngest daughter though there is a consensus that Arya Stark is also dead. Wouldn't you want to die if all your family met such gruesome ends?" He paused eyeing her meaningfully and waiting for a reaction. He didn't receive the one he expected or wanted.

"You would probably know better than I m'Lord." Talisa shrugged timidly. "Such a sad tale and so similar to your own," she paused and picked at the wood of the table. "Yet you don't seem to wish for death do you?" She glance up, pleased to see his eyes turn dark though careful to remain outwardly impassive. "Your father was slain by your own brother was he not? I believe the bastard King was poisoned at his wedding as well, and your lover and sister, didn't she meet a similar fate after months of imprisonment by the faith?"

Jamie smiled mirthlessly, eyes devoid of anything but loathing. "All deserving fates, I assure you." He told her too jovially while his expression turned into a grimace and he took a swig of his drink.

While his sentiments surprised her it wasn't adequate enough for her to feel merciful, not after what he'd just threatened to break lose within her with his own cruel words. "But it wasn't so for your daughter the princess or your other bastard son was it?" Talisa offered up as if naïve, seeming innocently curious about his suffering. In her mind she was elated to finally see the torture he bestowed upon the girl long dead and trapped in her mind returned in kind. "Myrcella bled out in the dessert after a slice disfigured her face and your son Tommen, he was captured by Stannis and his Red Priestess was he not? You yourself said fire was an excruciating death."

The Kingslayer's eyes flashed and she remained where she was though his movements were predictable. He had ahold of one of Talisa's wrists in an instant, dragging her forwards so she was forced to stretch across the table between them, his eyes centimeters from her own. Talisa cowered and ducked as he hovered over her threateningly, attracting the attention of the whole room though no one acted to stop the scene.

"The little scribe knows Westerosi history quite well." He sneered, his lips curled.

He yanked on her arm not quite painfully but Talisa cried out nonetheless. "Please m'Lord I thought we were just comparing Seven Kingdoms tragedies. Yours too is a sad tale."

He laughed sardonically, "Oh indeed." He seethed leaning closer and inspecting her face.

She was careful to meet his eyes looking sufficiently frightened and ignorant to how her own words could've affected him as she leaned away warily.

"You don't fool me." He spat at her scowling, rage still present in his eyes and not letting up on his grip. "You're not what you say you are."

Grey eyes turned to the table and the words spoken from her mouth seemed so foreign. She wasn't sure if it was Talisa who answered or No One, or even someone, which was frightening in and of itself. The furrow in her forehead developed without her knowledge.

"Not many people are what they say they are Kingslayer", She whispered into the ether much more morosely than she ever would've thought her normally emotionless voice capable.

Suddenly her wrist was free of his grasp and Talisa stumbled away from him rubbing her bruised skin and looking back thoroughly terrified as he stared at her cagily, seeming caught of guard and questioning himself. He looked conflicted and stunned by her last statement.

The scribe quickly scampered up to her room and barred the door while No One manned the walls of Arya Starks prison less the horn of winter sound and the walls crumble to release her.

The North remembers, so how could No One ever hope to forget the North.