#adanceofdeceit

Her role was simple: be invisible. Blend seamlessly into the background of the Red Keep’s chaos. No sudden movements, no lingering glances. Just another face in the endless stream of servants carrying out daily tasks without drawing notice.

The scent of damp earth and blooming herbs from the nearby gardens mingled with the faint smoke rising from the kitchens. Voices began to drift through the cool air; servants exchanging greetings or commands, guards muttering about the latest news from the city, the distant laughter of nobles unaware of the quiet wars unfolding beneath their feet.

She wiped a stray strand of hair from her face and moved along the corridors to the many different chambers of the Keep, opening the heavy wooden doors and windows of several rooms along the hallways, letting in fresh air and sunlight.

The woman wiped away the thin layer of dust from sills and surfaces. Her hands smoothed the edges of a curtain in one of the chambers, and adjusted a chair slightly out of place in the next. Small motions, unnoticed but enough to keep the rooms alive, ready for whatever purpose they might serve.

She paused often, hearing the rhythms of the keep all around her; the soft clink of metal, the rustle of fabric, voices rising and falling in quiet conversation. Nothing out of place, but each sound a thread woven into the tapestry of daily life she moved through, careful not to unravel anything or to be noticed herself.

As she moved through the Keep, she kept to her schedule, down to the Kitchens to collect the freshly prepared food for one of the many Nobles whom lived or stayed within the castle walls. The warmth and bustle there were a stark contrast to the quiet halls above.

The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and herbs steeping in boiling water. The chattering of cooks and scullery maids filled the space, punctuated by the clatter of pots and the occasional sharp call to fetch this or that.

She approached the counter where the morning meal had been set out; a simple yet elegant spread, warm bread still steaming, fresh butter, honeycomb, meats of three different kinds, fruit, roasted vegetables and a small pot of strong tea. She lifted the covered tray carefully, mindful of its weight and balance.

With measured steps, the maid retraced her path through the corridors, the sounds of the Keep returning, a soft scrape of broom against stone, voices muted behind closed doors, the faint echo of distant footsteps.

Passing a group of servants clustered near a doorway, she caught fragments of quiet conversation, a whispered name, a hint of worry. Her eyes flicked away, expression calm, as if she were no more than a passing shadow.

She paused briefly at another doorway where two servants exchanged quiet words, their heads bent close but voices barely above a whisper. She stepped just far enough to catch the tail end of a name, a place, a promise made already fragile. 

All promises were.

At the end of the hall, she reached the heavy oak door of the noble’s chambers. She paused as she waited for the guard stationed outside to open the door for her. She slipped inside, softly placing the tray gently on a polished table near the window, fresh flowers from the garden had been placed on the table the day before, and she noted that they should be replaced again today, despite them not drooping. Light spilled through the windows as she pulled open the curtains, casting a glow on the stone floor. The noble lay resting on the bed, eyes closed but breathing steady, still asleep despite her fussing.

As the maid moved around the room preparing it for him to wake, his body stirring behind her as he woke slowly to the smell of food and light streaming in, she looked about the chambers for anything of interest. A book, a scroll, anything that her trained eye could catch before stepping back into the corridor. 

The delicate dance of daily life resumed, but her mind was already elsewhere, quietly gathering, quietly watching, always aware of the threads woven through the walls around her.

--

The corridors had begun to hum with the rhythm of the day. Servants hurried to and fro with linens and platters, guards traded shifts at the stairwells, and the faint sound of bells from the sept rolled through the air. She moved through it all unnoticed, the tray long since delivered, her hands now empty save for the habit of keeping them busy.

Passing through one of the inner courtyards, she slowed to adjust a tapestry of The Crone, disturbed by the wind of the night before. Below, two guards lingered near the archway, a change in shift, their voices low but not low enough.

“I’ll tell you plain,” One of them muttered, voice hushed, “The King is reckless. Drinks more than he thinks. Say what you will of Daemon, but he knew how to lead men.”

“Quiet!” The other hissed, though without much conviction, “You’ll lose your post for talk like that.”

“More likely my head.“

His words grew distant as she moved further down the corridor, looking over the edge and down as the two guards were slowly revealed to her. 

The tallest of the men had short black hair and a thick beard, she could tell he had been the first man she heard as the other, shorter with a shaved head, was looking nervously around the courtyard and paths. He was worried they would be caught, unaware that they already had. 

She kept moving, making sure that she looked at both them, and continued the work she was set out to do, adjusting another tapestry, shifting a chair that sat along a balcony overlooking the courtyard, all whilst she remembered the slopes of their noses and the shift of their jaws. 

The maid moved without urgency, descending the stairs down to the courtyard so that she could pass by them and get a better look. She passed them without a word, the both of them stiffening as they saw her come nearer, their conversation halting abruptly and the two separating as she continued on her way. 

Information like that wasn’t urgent. Many people hated Aegon, but Lord Larys Strong liked to know when and where loyalties shifted. Small cracks in the stone could widen if pressed at the right time.

--

It was she who had suggested the signal. Direct words were dangerous; even silence could be overheard in the wrong moment.

“If I have something of value,” She had said, “You’ll know.”

Larys Strong considered her for a long time, eyes half-lidded, weighing her as he might a blade before deciding whether it would cut cleanly, “And what form will this teller take?”

Her gaze had fallen to the table between them. A simple clay jar sat there, half-filled with wilted herbs, “A flower.” She said after a pause, “From the garden. Red. I’ll place it on the table. If you see it, you’ll know.”

He smiled again then, but it had been a quiet, knowing sort of smile, “Clever. I’ll summon you for tea before bed.”

She moved to leave his chambers but paused and turned back, “The colour will have to change. Someone may notice me bringing you a lone flower on every other day.”

Larys Strong gave her an appraising look, “Bring flowers each day, but one will be the only of its colour amongst the rest.”

She gave him a nod and left his chambers.

From that night on, the system had held. No words exchanged, no notes passed. Just a single bloom amongst the rest—a whisper between two conspirators hiding in plain sight.

At the edge of the gardens, she paused by a row of herbs and flowers. The scent of mint and rosemary filled the air. She used the blade within her aprons to cut a bunch of flowers, purples and yellows, their smell strong in her nose. She kept walking before finding one of her choosing. Her fingers brushed over the plants before plucking one of the small crimson blossoms that had opened with the dawn, and made her way back towards the Keep. 

It was easy getting back inside to collect a vase and place her bouquet of flowers inside with some water from a well. Was easier still to make her way up the stairs to Lord Larys Strongs chambers, known by the guards stationed outside his door as she made her way inside, head down to place the vase upon his table, the man himself seated as he slowly broke his fast. His dark eyes flicked over the flowers and to her, but she barely spared him a glance, bowing before exiting the chambers. 

He would receive his tea that evening.

--

The corridors of the Red Keep had long since quieted by the time she reached Lord Larys Strong’s chambers. The torches burned low, their light trembling across the stone walls. In her hands she carried a small tray: a teapot, one cup, and a bowl of honey.

The air inside his chambers always felt heavier than elsewhere, still, perfumed faintly with sandalwood and smoke. He was seated by the hearth when she entered, his cane resting against the arm of the chair. The fire cast his shadow across the floor, bending it into strange shapes.

He had been waiting.

“Set it there.” He murmured, gesturing to the low table beside him as his guards held the door open for you, “You may go.” His voice was soft to the men stationed at his door, and they closed it without a second thought. 

The air in the chambers thickened, and she moved to pour him his tea. 

One spoonful of honey, stirred thrice. 

She knew him better than anyone else.

Larys watched her a moment before speaking again, “I wondered whether you would have something for me this week.”

She picked up the tea and saucer and made her way towards him, placing the tea in front of him as she stood beside the chaise he sat on. The firelight flickered over his features, which neither betrayed his intrigue nor amusement. 

Her hands folded before her, expression polite, unremarkable, “There was talk among the guards near the west courtyard. Nothing new, though I’ve noticed a pattern of growing dissent amongst them.” She said lightly, as if recounting nothing more important than the weather, “A few feel their loyalty may have been misplaced.”

He smiled, slow and thoughtful, “Men are so quick to question the hand that feeds them.” Larys leant forward to pick up his teacup and saucer, carefully blowing away steam and taking a sip. 

Trust.

“You have a talent for noticing small things like these, the others often think it inconsequential.” He said, tone bored, “It is a dangerous gift, in a place like this.”

“People forget who listens when they don’t think they’re being heard.”

His smile deepened, almost approving, “And do you forget, when you listen?”

“Never.”

For a heartbeat, the room felt still. Two shadows measuring the other in silence. Then he took another deep sip from his cup.

“You’ve done well.” He said at last, “I’ll see to it that certain ears hear what they need to. Did you recognise these men?”

“The first of the men,” She thought for a moment, only a beat, “Erock Swynt I believe. Often in the courtyards before the suns rise and dawn. His companion was younger, I’ve not seen him before.”

Larys turned his cup slowly in his hands, the movement deliberate, “Swynt.” He murmured, “Once a Gold Cloak. He’s either ambitious or stupid. I’ve never trusted either quality.”

She said nothing, waiting. Over the years she had learnt that silence drew more from him than speech.

He leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the slight tilt of his mouth, “And what did they say?”

“They spoke of Prince Daemon.” She replied, voice low, even, “One of them said he was a man who knew how to lead. The other didn’t disagree.”

“Ah,” Larys breathed, taking another sip, “Nostalgia. A trait far more treacherous than ambition.” He moved to place to teacup down on the small table before him, “You’ve been here for a long time now, haven’t you? Years.”

“Since before the King’s health began to worsen.” She said, “Before the whispers grew teeth.”

“Then you know how easily the world forgets those who serve it.” His gaze lingered on her, “And how quickly those same hands can shape a new one.”

She met his eyes, just for a heartbeat, “My Lord.”

“You will mark Swynt’s name. Watch him. If his tongue wags again, I’d like to know to whom.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, then moved to collect the empty tray, collecting his teacup as she placed it with the rest.

“You speak well for a maid.” Larys watched her with curious eyes. 

It wasn’t the first time he had noted it. Despite his prodding and own searching, he had found nothing.

She gave a faint smile that did not reach her eyes, “G’night, m’lord.”

“Goodnight, my little moth.”

Moth.

The title, his invention, was spoken without warmth or cruelty, merely observation. A creature overlooked, in the shadows, drawn to flame.

She left quietly, closing the door behind her. By the time she reached the hallway, her face had returned to that calm, forgettable mask. The look of a maid with no thoughts worth noticing. Yet beneath it, her pulse thrummed.

Another message delivered. Another thread woven. 

Another yet to be strung.