Ros drew her knees tighter, resting her chin atop them as she stared into the cooling embers. The fire had burned down to a quiet glow, and the murmur of footsteps on the wooden floor above signaled the start of a new day. Pale morning light spilled across the floorboards.
The door creaked open.
"You're brooding again, Ros." Kella's voice, high and teasing, cut through the stillness like a blade. Ros didn't need to turn to know it was her. The other girls followed behind, shawls about their shoulders, cheeks pink from the cold. They brought the scent of boiled linen and rose oil into the room.
"We've told you," said Jenny, plopping herself down beside Ros with a dramatic sigh, "no good ever comes of thinking too much. Makes the head ache and the belly empty."
"Speak for yourself," Lana drawled, tugging a ribbon loose from her bodice. "Ros's belly's not empty. She's got lion coins jingling between her legs."
That sent them into shrill laughter. Ros smiled faintly.
"I'd brood too, if I had Lannister gold to count," Jenny said, "You think he'll come back? The Imp?"
"Why wouldn't he?" Ros replied, "I gave him the best night of his little life."
More laughter, high and cackling.
"Best night and best view," Lana grinned, lowering her hand to her knee.
Ros joined them with a chuckle. She didn't mind their teasing. It was honest, at least. Her fingers traced the gold chain Lord Tyrion had given her, the links cool against her collarbone. And she had earned the gold chain fair and well. Tyrion was clever, charming in his own way, and polite as any man she'd ever met.
The girls settled in as they always did, like hens in a roost. Morning was the only quiet time.
"Did you hear?" Kella said, "Lord Stark's been named Hand o' the King. The whole town's talking of it. They say he's riding south with the king soon."
"To King's Landing!" Jenny gasped. "So far… at the world's end."
"Not the end," Lana scoffed. "Just in the middle."
"Still," Jenny said, her voice dreamy. "Golden halls and red keeps. I heard the women down there wear silks so fine you can see clean through 'em."
"What's the point of a dress if it don't hide your teats?" Kella snorted.
"Ask Ros," Lana said, grinning again. "That green gown of yours at the Log... I thought your tits were gonna pop right out and slap Lord Robb across the face. The boy lords blushed like maidens seeing you."
The girls hooted with laughter. Kella smirked and rolled her eyes. "All except Ser Arthur."
"Oh, my sea prince!" Jenny giggled, her eyes glittering. "Gods, he looks like a dream. I get weak in me knees every time I think of that face of his."
Kella spoke. "Dream or no, Ros owes me coin. A wager's a wager."
Ros rolled her eyes and pressed a silver stag into her palm. "There. Don't choke on it." That'll shut Kella up, if only for a beat.
Arthur Manderly. Ros remembered the first time she saw him, a boy then, tall and lean. He came as Lord Stark's ward and had grown since then, into the kind of man songs were written about. Beautiful as a daydream, with eyes too kind for the world he lived in. The girls called him the sea prince, in jest and in awe.
She'd seen nobles come and go through Winter Town, men with coin and empty charm. She'd bedded enough of them to know the difference. Arthur… he was different. He and Lord Robb never came to the brothel. Yet he never even looked at her the way all men did, with that desire in their eyes. Ros knew she wasn't the prettiest, but she was pretty enough to catch men's eyes.
Last night, at the Log, when they entered, all the men's eyes were on them. They walked inside with a sway that told a man exactly what they offered. She saw Robb and Jon reddening like green boys, Theon leering as ever. But Arthur… he didn't even turn to look.
The tavern was warm and loud. Robb Stark and Jon Snow, and Theon Greyjoy drank ale with their arms draped over chairs, like princes of the north. Arthur sat near the fire, a tankard in hand, his dark blue cloak pulled loose at the shoulders, his fair hair damp from the snow. He looked tired, quiet, and alone. Even when Theon's jests rattled the rafters, Arthur's smile was only half a thing.
Kella declared, A silver to whoever takes the sea prince to bed. Kyra snorted, muttered something about Theon, and rushed for him. Jenny and Lana pulled faces and held their purses tight. Only Ros had met Kella's eye and said, "Done."
Ros slid into the bench across from Arthur, heart thudding in her chest. She put on the smile she gave to men with silver in hand. She leaned forward just enough to show her chest.
"Ser Arthur," she said, her voice sultry and sweet. "I've heard so much about you. All of it good."
He looked at her and smiled. Not the leer she'd grown used to, like a man looking at a whore. A true smile, warm as a hearth. "And now you've come to see whether the tales are true," he said, his voice as soft as a song. She laughed, her cheeks burned red.
"What's your name, my lady?" he asked.
The words struck her like a hammer. My lady. Never once had a man called her that without mockery. Yet he said it plain, as if he meant it.
"Ros," she answered, her blush deepening.
"Is it short for something?"
"No," she lied, startled. He nodded gently, not pressing her.
They spoke softly. She joked, flirted, and laughed. But soon her act wore thin, and shame crept in. Her eyes dropped. Arthur asked her where she hailed from, of her family, and her dreams. And gods help her, she answered. Things she hadn't meant to.
She told him of her mother, who had died birthing her, and of her father, once a cook in Winterfell's kitchens before he became a baker in Wintertown. She told how he loved her dearly, how he wished her to be more than she was. She told him how she learned the letters from an old merchant, writing the names in the dirt every day so she wouldn't forget.
And Arthur had listened, as if every word she said mattered more than the stories and jests the boys were tossing about behind him. His eyes never dropped to her chest. His gaze stayed on her face, kind, curious, and so sad.
She told him, too, of her father's death when she was ten. The sickness that carried him off. Her voice caught, and a tear betrayed her. She turned her head, willing herself to stop. She had given too much away.
She pulled the bodice of her dress just slightly higher and forced a smile to her lips. "Now they say I'm the best whore in all the North. Would you like to find out why, my handsome knight?"
Arthur's voice was soft. "They also say that the sky is blue because we live inside a giant's eye. So, you're not what they say, Ros."
She gave a laugh too brittle. "And how would you know that I'm not?"
Then he leaned closer, so close her breath caught. He smelled of pine forests and smoky steel. Gently, he brushed the tear from her cheek. His words were a whisper meant only for her. "I know, because I see it in your eyes. Clever as a fox, and more than what you are made to be." His mouth curved. "And besides, Lady Taena is in the North now too, and they say there's not a whore in the world to rival her."
Heat rushed into her face so fiercely she thought her freckles had burned away. She stumbled to her feet, skirts tangling round her legs, half-laughing, half-crying, and fled.
"Did you see Ser Jaime in here yesterday?" Jenny said, dragging Ros back to the present.
"Ser Jaime. That's a man, I tell you. I'd climb him like a tree." Kella muttered.
"Gods, Kella!" Ros snorted.
"What? I'm only telling the truth," Kella replied unashamed.
"We've never had so many customers before," Jenny sighed, stretching her legs. "I'll be walking bow-legged till the snows come."
"Best coin we've had in years," Lana agreed, "Lords, squires, singers, sellswords. Even some of the kitchen boys snuck off with coppers in hand."
"They'll all be gone soon enough," Ros said quietly
Jeyne said, "Aye. When Lord Stark goes south, lord Robb'll be the new lord of Winterfell, won't he?"
"He'll rule in his father's stead," Ros answered. "Lord Eddard will still be our lord."
"Think Robb'll marry?" Lana asked. "He's of age."
"He'll have to. A lord's got to have a lady," said Kella.
"Lady Sansa will marry the prince and be queen," Jenny put in dreamily. "Our winter queen."
Kella snorted. "Not ripe yet, that one. Still just a girl."
Ros's voice was quiet, "We all were, once."
The girls grew quiet at that. Even Jenny fell still, twining a lock of her hair around one finger. The door cracked open again with a sudden gust of snow-chill air. Their matron Bessa stood there, windblown and flushed.
"Back to work, you lot," she called, clapping her hands together. "Business don't wait. One of the Stark men wants Jenny, and there's a Lannister guard asking for twins, real or fake."
Groans rose as the girls stood. Then Bessa looked at Ros.
"And you've got a visitor too. Lord Greyjoy's come around again."
Ros sighed, "Tell him he can come up," she said, smoothing her skirts.
The looks the others gave her were sharp as needles. Envy, mostly. Theon Greyjoy was no lord in Winterfell, not truly, but he swaggered like one. Pride and hunger, always. But pride spent silver, same as shame.
When the door opened again, Theon strode in, all salt and storm.. Cloak slung half-off one shoulder, black hair wind-tossed and damp with melting snow. There was a smirk already playing across his lips, one hand curled around a coin pouch. His boots thudded heavy on the wood floor.
"Well," he said, eyeing her as if he'd bought her already. "Winter's never looked warmer."
Ros smiled, her smile, one she'd used for men who thought they were kings.
"My lord Greyjoy," she purred, "Come to warm your hands?"
He tossed the coin purse onto the table, "Don't pretend you don't know."
She took the coins with nimble fingers, counted without shame. A whore who didn't count her silver was a fool.
"I can pretend, Theon," she said, turning her back to him as she unlaced her bodice. "If you want."
And most times he did. The act was quick, as it often was with Theon. Urgent and boastful, full of grunts and teeth. He took what he paid for, and Ros gave it with practiced ease, her mind wandering far from the bed. By the time he lay back panting, his hair sticking to his brow, Ros was already reaching for her shift.
It was then he noticed it. The chain. Gold, delicate, gleaming in the firelight. She wore it low, so it rested just above the swell of her breasts.
Theon narrowed his eyes. "That new?"
Ros didn't answer at first. She tucked her hair behind her ear, adjusted the chain so it lay just right. He sat up. "That's from the Imp, isn't it?"
Her smile returned, slow and wicked. "Why? Jealous?"
His face twisted. "Of a half-man?" he snapped. "He's a wretched little troll, and you're a—"
"Whore?" she finished, still smiling. "Aye. And you're a customer. We both play our parts."
Theon's jaw tightened. "At least with me, you feel something."
Ros chuckled. "Oh, you'd be surprised," she said airily, adjusting her bodice. "The Imp's got a clever tongue. Quite good with it, too."
Theon flushed. "Anyone with coins can have you."
"Aye," Ros said, stepping close, her fingers trailing along his shoulder. "Like you did, so what's the matter, my lord? Afraid someone else might have me better?"
He batted her hand away, fuming, "I'm a Greyjoy, I take what I want. I'm not afraid of anything."
"Of course not," she replied, soft and sly, she asked, "Does your friend Arthur go to the brothels, ever?"
"Arthur?" Theon spat the name like sour milk. "No. Never. Thinks he's too good for the likes of you."
Ros arched a brow, curious. "Is he?"
"He thinks he is." Theon stood, pacing now, unable to sit still with his anger. "Smiling and charming. Never drinking too much, never chasing skirts. Always perfect. Like he's some Seven-damned saint."
"You don't like him," she said, feigning surprise.
"Of course I don't!" Theon hissed. "He's better with a blade, better with a horse, better with bloody scrolls. The whole north, even lord Stark, sings his praises, like he shits gold and pisses summerwine."
Ros said nothing, only watched, her face calm.
"And he treats me like I'm dirt, like I don't belong here." Theon went on. "Because I'm Ironborn."
Ros tilted her head. "But you said it yourself, your home is the Pyke."
Theon's face darkened. "And he's got that sword," he muttered. "Nightfall. Stolen from the Harlaws."
Ros leaned in. "Didn't he win it? Saving the king?"
Theon snorted. "He was six. Barely old enough to piss straight. Some bastard tried to stick it to King Robert. Arthur gets lucky with a blade, and suddenly he's a hero. They gave him Valyrian steel like it was his right."
"Sounds like something an Ironborn might do," Ros said, voice sweet. "Kill and take what he wants."
Theon's eyes blazed. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders and stormed to the door. "Enjoy your Imp's gold," he snarled. "You're welcome to him."
The sun had risen higher, though the gray sky kept its warmth at bay. After Theon's visit, Ros craved air that did not stink of sweat and pride. She drew her cloak about her and slipped into the streets with Jenny and Kella at either arm. The three of them made a merry sight, cheeks flushed against the cold, boots splashing through half-frozen mud between crooked shops and carts.
The town bustled, more than usual. The royal visit had brought butchers, smiths, sellers of trinkets and sweetmeats, and men who'd heard there was coin to be made in serving them. The stink of horses mixed with pinewood smoke and roasting chestnuts. Children darted between barrels, laughing with chapped cheeks, and old women hawked thread and thimbles from doorways.
Ros bought a comb of carved oakwood from a peddler with a lazy eye, and Jenny fussed over a bolt of green-dyed wool. Kella flirted with a spice-merchant who smelled of peppercorn and sin. For a little while, Ros let herself drift. She laughed, tasted honeycake from a stall, and let the wind pull strands of red hair.
Then she turned a corner and collided headfirst into a broad chest wrapped in roughspun wool.
"Oh—!" she stumbled, her coin pouch spilling, the small package of lavender soap she'd just bought tumbling to the ground.
"I'm so sorry," came a gentle voice.
Ros froze. She would have known that voice even in a different tongue, even in a dream. No man had ever carved so deep into her, not with a touch, not with their blades, and certainly not with a song.
Arthur Manderly, dressed like a common man, plain tunic, brown cloak, a weathered hood pulled forward to shadow his features. To any passerby, he was another son of the North come to trade in the square. Arthur bent at once, gathering her things with swift, "Let me," he said, his eyes still half-hidden by the hood.
Jenny scoffed. "Watch where you're going!"
"Blind sod trampled my hem," Kella snapped.
"Apologies," Arthur shifted into a drawl, so rough it startled her. "Firs' time I've been to a big town."
Jenny softened a touch. "You best be careful."
"Get out of here, fool!" Kella barked, shoving past.
Arthur lifted his head just slightly and smiled. As he handed her the soap, their fingers brushed. Ros's breath caught in her throat. Her friends grumbled, then moved on, none the wiser. Only Ros stood frozen, her heart thudding against her ribs like a startled bird.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice barely a breath.
He gave a small nod and turned to go.
"I—I'll catch up," Ros told the girls, but she was already following.
He walked like a man unhurried, shoulders slightly stooped, head lowered. She stayed back, careful not to be seen. She watched as he wandered from stall to stall, speaking to sellers.
"How much for the good oatcakes, sister?" he asked a plump baker. "Not them burnt ones."
"Two coppers," the woman said, eyeing him.
"Robbery," he muttered, and moved on.
He examined furs, apples, and even a row of clay jars filled with goosefat and pine resin. With each exchange, he kept up the act perfect, posture changed. Not a single person looked at him twice. Ros stayed close, mystified. Why would a lord play at being smallfolk? Why sneak when his name alone could part crowds?
Then Arthur made his way to the far end of town to Fisherman's Square. The smell hit first: fish guts, salt, river mud. Slabs of trout and salmon lay on boards slick. Fisherwives shouted prices over gulls, and boys in leather aprons swung gutting knives like swords. No noble ever came here.
But Arthur walked among them with ease. He stopped at one stall where a net-mender with three fingers was hawking cod from White Harbor.
"That good?" Arthur asked, lifting the tail of a fat silver fish.
"Just gutted, brother," the man said. "Fresh from the harbor. Saltiest cod you'll find."
Arthur laughed, "Ain't no fish from the harbors still fresh."
The man grinned, gap-toothed. "Barges bring these up the White Knife each week. Fresh as morning frost, you'll see. Go on, try it."
Arthur hefted the fish again. "How much for the big one?"
"Only ten," the man said with his crooked smile.
Arthur made a show of outrage. "Ten pennies for one cod! Gods, you'd rob me in daylight, brother?"
"Eight, then. Fair price."
"Four," Arthur shot back, "and not a penny more."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Six, or I'll be ruined. Six and done."
Arthur sighed as if wronged. "Still too damn high. But wrap it up, the wife wants silver codfish for her mother."
The fishmonger tied it with twine and handed it over. "You'll not regret it, brother."
Arthur grinned and clapped his shoulder like kin. He spoke easy with the man, asked after the river, the weather, and the last barge from the harbor. Ros could not look away.
He left the square and ducked into the Willow inn, an unsavory place. Ros followed at a distance, slipping into the inn after him. The taproom was quiet at this hour, smoke-stained rafters, tables empty but for two men dicing in the corner. The innkeep barely looked up.
And Arthur was nowhere to be seen.
"You'd make a fine little shadow, my lady," suddenly came the voice. Ros gasped and spun, nearly stumbling, but his strong hands caught her wrist, gently. "Pardon me," he said gently. "Didn't mean to frighten you."
"You—you didn't," she lied, flushed and breathless.
His hand was still warm on hers as he guided her to a bench near the hearth. "Sit. You've earned a drink."
Arthur crossed to the bar, he slipped back into the coarse drawl, "Two ales, and bread if you've got any still warm."
"Drink," he said, setting the mug before her.
She wrapped her fingers around the ale and took a long sip, never taking her eyes off him. The ale was strong, bitter on her tongue, and warmed her belly. Ros held the cup tight in both hands, as if it might anchor her, her mind still spinning from the hour's strange turn.
"You're wondering," Arthur said lightly, his voice almost teasing, "why a noble would walk about dressed like a fisherman's third son. Pretending to haggle over cod. Listening to gutter gossip as if it were gospel."
"Aye," Ros admitted softly. "I suppose I am."
Arthur smiled slightly. "Maybe I'm trying to understand them. The folk I'm supposed to protect. Maybe I like to pretend I'm no one for a little while. Maybe I'm mad." He leaned in, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "Or maybe I'm all three."
Ros let slip a breath of laughter.
"But I won't tell you which," he said with a wink. "Would spoil the mystery. Better that you find out yourself."
She tilted her head, still puzzled. "And what would I do with this mystery, ser?"
"I don't know. Perhaps give me your answer someday." His tone grew quieter. "And perhaps keep it between us."
Ros sat straighter, her hands tight about the mug. "Of course I will."
Arthur studied her face for a long moment. "I don't doubt you. Still, I'd like to make a bargain of it. I am, after all, more a merchant than a lord."
At that, her brows drew together. "You think I'd sell your secret, is that it?" she said coolly. "Who trusts a whore, after all?"
Arthur laughed, full of mirth but not unkind. "I do," he said. "In fact, I've had one as a business partner for years. One of the smartest woman I ever met."
Ros blinked, "You're jesting."
"I'm not," he said, still smiling. "But that's a tale for another night. I didn't mean to offend. If you keep this secret, you'll be doing me a favor. And I'm a man who remembers his debts. So tell me, Roslin, what would you want in return?"
Ros opened her mouth, then closed it again. "How do you know that?" Her father named her Roslin, for she was his little rose. After his death, no one called her that again. She became only Ros.
"I didn't," He smiled.
She looked down at her cup, cheeks burning, cursing her foolish tongue. "I want… nothing," she murmured. "It's yours to keep."
Arthur gave a low chuckle. "Your generosity humbles me, my lady. Still, everyone wants something."
She blurted the first thing that came to her lips. "A song."
He looked at her, amused. "That's all? A song?" His voice was playful. "Come now, Red. Ask for something proper. A dress, perhaps? Jewels? A... position?"
That caught her off guard. "A position?" Her eyes narrowed. "You mean to hire me as your personal whore? I never thought you were the type to pay for it."
Arthur's eyes twinkled. "Why would I do that?" he said lightly. "If I wanted to pay for a tumble, I could've done that in any corner of this realm."
Ros replied, jaw tight. "Then what could I possibly do for you? I'm a whore." She looked back at him with fire in her eyes.
"I have need of another aide," Arthur said simply.
She blinked. "A what?"
"Someone who can read. And write. Someone trustworthy. I deal in more than fish and swords, Red. There are letters to keep, ledgers to balance. Contracts. Records. Trade routes. I already have several aides, but they could always use the help. They'd teach you, and with time, I think you'd be very good at it."
Ros stared at him, heart thudding. "You think I can do that?"
"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't," Arthur replied.
She set her mug down, hands trembling faintly. The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. "What would you even pay someone for something like that?"
Arthur grinned. "More than you make on your back. I'm a generous man. And it's honest work."
Ros's breath caught. Honest. The word sounded strange on her tongue.
"There is one catch," Arthur added. "You'd have to move. My household is in White Harbor."
Ros's lips parted. "That's no trouble. I've no kin here."
Arthur smirked. "Also, you'll have songs aplenty there."
She looked up, her mouth curving, soft and unsure. "I'd love that very much."
Arthur smiled again, "Then it's settled."
Ros took another sip of ale, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something like hope stretch gently beneath her ribs. When they stepped out of the Willow into the chill, the sun was already dragging itself low across a sky of pale gray. The cold air bit at her cheeks.
"You don't have to," she said, clutching her cloak close. "It isn't far."
Arthur only smiled, that same half-mischief tugging at the corner of his lips. "It is a knight's duty to see a lady safe to her door. Even if she swears she does not need it."
Her laugh spilled out before she could stop it, sharp and free. "And what would the noble ladies say, if they saw their famed knight walking a whore to her door?"
Arthur's eyes gleamed. "They'd say what they always do." His smile broadened. "'That bitch.'"
Ros laughed louder, unburdened, the sound startling her own ears. No one had ever made her laugh like that.
They walked quietly for a time, his long stride measured to match hers. The wind had picked up, tugging at the hem of her cloak, and the scent of chimney smoke and pine clung to the air like a memory. For a moment, she let herself pretend they were simply two souls walking home together.
At the gate of the brothel, Arthur halted. From within his cloak, he drew forth a small roll of parchment, tied and sealed in wax. He held it out to her with care. "This bears my seal," he said. "Show it to any man in White Harbor wearing my colors, and you'll be taken to Newcastle. My steward will see to you, and you'll have your place."
Ros took it gently, the parchment warm from the heat of his body. "And they'll believe me?"
"This is more than parchment," Arthur told her. "It is a shield. There are coins within for your travel. Keep it close, and keep it secret. There are men who would take it from you, if they knew its worth."
Ros nodded, tucking the letter beneath her cloak like it were a hidden jewel.
Arthur bowed his head, slight but solemn. "Then this is farewell, for now."
"Thank you," Ros said, still unsure why she said that. Many a man had offered her many things before, but none kept their word. Why would she think this one would be different? She asked herself.
His eyes lingered on her, soft and steady. "I'll see you again, Roslin. I look forward to working with you." Then he turned, boots crunching as he strode down the street, shoulders square, cloak stirring in the wind.
Ros stood still a moment longer. She pressed the parchment against her heart and shut her eyes. "Let him be different," she whispered to the Mother. "Just once. Just once, let me be more than this."