Morning starts with bossy sunlight.
I wake on the window sill with my head tucked under a wing. Rhaenys is still asleep, wooden doll across her pillow. Elia sits nearby, sewing by the light, motion slow to spare her side.
Food arrives. A small dish with seeds. A saucer with water.
I don't rush. Eat, sip, look. Pattern first, then appetite.
Roost- activerecoverycomplete.
Servants move around without causing much disturbance. One hums under her breath. One checks the floor for crumbs and dirt. The same three guards pass the arch in the garden. Bored, alert, mean. No changes there.
Rhaenys blinks awake and smiles like the day is a pet that came when called.
"Good marrow, Velmir."
I hop closer. She offers a seed from her palm. Gentle. Kind. She's taking the rules seriously.
Elia's voice is warm, a touch of music. "Hands after, little one."
Rhaenys nods. She eats a piece of bread, feeds the last seed to me, then goes to the basin. Rinse. She tilts her fingers like she's showing me the clean shine.
"All done."
We do a tour.
The garden is a rectangle of calm: lemons, soft grass, a low wall, a stone bench and a old wierwood tree. Beyond, the city grumbles. Carts. Shouting. Sea birds throwing insults none of us deserve.
I test flight paths from sill to wall, wall to tree, tree back to sill. Nothing fancy. Short hops. Safe angles.
Yes, I said "safe." I learn.
By noon the heat climbs. Elia retreats to shade. Rhaenys builds a house out of flat stones and gives it a door that will never quite stay open. She talks to it under her breath. Practicing stories.
The house gets a resident.
The cat. The little Balereon.
Small, grey, eyes keen. It pretends not to care, then cares very loudly. It stalks the wall like it owns the deed.
It sees a sparrow on the far parapet.
The cat bunches up.
"Don't," I think at it.
The cat does.
It leaps for a gap the size of its ego.
Mid-air, the truth arrives: distance is rude.
"Fuck."
I launch. One hard beat. The world snaps into a single lane of air.
NewSkill:TailwindI—Yourburstspeedincreaseswhenmovingtoassistanally.
Ally? Fine. I'll invoice later.
I cut across the gap and grab the kitten by the scruff. It hisses, offended. My chest burns with effort. I don't carry so much as redirect angle, glide, a light touch on tile, claws skittering, then we're down on the near wall.
We slide to a stop. The sparrow flew away.
Rhaenys squeals. "Velmir!"
Elia's hand reaches to her heart and stops there, holding something in place. "Mother above," she breathes, then remembers she's Dornish and corrects herself with a small smile. "Well flown."
I set the kitten down. It blinks, sneezes, then pretends it meant to do that. We all agree to the lie.
Rhaenys pets it once, careful. "Slow, Balereon," she tells the cat. "The air does not love fools."
Same, kid. Same.
BondStable:Rhaenys-L2(Trust).
Afternoon brings a visitor.
Powder. Silk. Quiet feet. The same bald man from Day 0.
He pauses under the balcony and looks up with lazy attention. Those eyes weigh things.
"Your bird is bold, princess," he says. No mockery. No warmth either. "And fortunate."
Rhaenys brightens. "He is Velmir. He saved our cat."
The man's smile is shaped, not felt. "How very useful."
Elia answers for both of them, voice soft, spine straight. "You have business, Lord Varys?"
Ah. Name. Wait a sec how come I know this name.
"Always," he says. "I'm told the King fancies a cooler room today. I came to ask whether a certain door can be unbarred for the draft."
Elia gives him the look of someone who knows when a question is also a test. "The door near the gallery is stubborn."
"I find stubborn things yield to patience." He glances at me again. "As do strange things."
Strange? Rude, but fair.
I tilt my head and chirp once. Neutral.
Varys's mouth twitches. "Charming."
He leaves a moment later, gliding as if the ground is a suggestion. The guards who hate him more than they fear him pretend they didn't see.
Rhaenys watches him go. "He smells like oranges," she says.
"Some do," Elia murmurs.
Rhaenys nods like she understands more than she should.
I file the talk. Oranges. Doors and drafts. Nothing loud. A thousand quiet pieces that only point one way when you stand far enough back.
Do not stand far back yet. Build the picture. Don't name it.
We nap in the shade. The kitten sleeps with one paw on my tail like a thief laying claim. Boundaries are dead.
I practice Ember at the far end by the stone trough. Tiny sparks. No drapes. No accidents. We like being alive.
A serving girl brings a plate of cut fruit. Rhaenys shares one piece with me, then offers Elia the best slice without being told. Habit, not show.
"Thank you, my sun," Elia says. Warm, loving. She eats slow. There's pain tucked into her breath again. She hides it with grace. I hate that she has to.
Evening rolls in.
The bored guard becomes less bored. The alert one does a second loop. The mean one jokes with a friend about a boy in the cells. I mark tone. I mark timing. I mark how shadows fall when the lamps are lit.
Patterns keep you alive.
Rhaenys sits on the sill and dangles her feet.
"Hands," Elia reminds.
Rhaenys washes. She returns to the window with the look of a child who has decided night is for secrets.
She leans close. "Velmir," she whispers, "if I throw the ribbon, will you bring it back?"
Game accepted. I take it. I make a show of not giving it up. She laughs, then bargains like a tiny lord. One fig seed. One ribbon. Trade closed.
We're both very mature.
The bells in the city ring a slow pattern I don't know. Not celebration. Not a funeral. Something in between that makes the hair on my neck argue with the feathers.
I watch the walls. The sky shifts from gold to bruised purple. The smell of oil grows near the gates. The garden shrinks to what you can touch.
Rhaenys yawns. Elia scoops her up with practiced care. "Sleep," she says. "We do all we can by day. Night we give back."
Rhaenys nods against her shoulder. "Good night, Velmir."
I tuck in at the sill again. Stone under breastbone. Air on back. Not quite comfortable, but okay.
The kitten resettles by my side, pretending it didn't need saving earlier. We respect the narrative.
Down in the path, two servants talk in low voices. One says, "Did you hear? The Hand snapped at the cooks again." The other says, "He's frightened, like the rest." They fall silent when boots scrape. The mean guard laughs at something that isn't funny.
I breathe. I count. I keep score.
Three days in and I have food, water, safe perches, and a child who believes in me.
I also have a bald man who called me "useful.". Somewhere I seen him before though.
Anyway useful is a promise and a threat.
We'll take the first. Watch for the second.
SkillConfirmed:Tailwind IReminder:FVRlow.LimitEmberpractice.
Copy that.