Tourneys were naught of curiosity within the realm since the beginning of King Robert Baratheon's reign. The lack of rarity affected the Hand's Tourney not, a flood of eager patrons, nimble-fingered thieves and [not-always-so] valiant knights still rushed the walls of King's Landing once word of the tourney had been spread throughout the realm. Bodies were hard-pressed for unoccupied space, the sea of faces swelling as highborn Sers parted the enamored masses, ebbing as events and street markets stole the baseborn civilians' attention away. Merchants' insatiable lust for coin was diminished, their greedy grins growing with every silver crown that tinkled in their overflowing money pouches. There was no lack of entertainers either - fools, bards and scantily dressed women dotted the crowds, hoping to win the favor of the drunken King.

Apart from the throng of people, in the long shadow birthed by a towering stone wall, stood a woman. Her eyes were shrouded by the shade cast by the hood of her deep green cloak and her mouth was masked by the silky black cowl of her clothes. Wisps of inky hair escaped the cover of her cloak, dancing in the ever-present warm breeze of the South. Her posture reeked of a feline aggression, almost enough to picture a twitching tail peeking out from the end of her cloak. She had been waiting for far too long, and she was quickly losing patience. Strange noises sounded from within the numerous crates that surrounded the woman, and they seemed to share the annoyance that the woman demonstrated. The creatures contained within the cages of wood wanted released as badly as the woman wanted to be out of the midday heat.

A man that called himself Varys had made a proposition to her a few moons passed. The words written in his letter to her had been flattering - overtly so. Disgustingly so, to the woman, and he had addressed himself as Lord as well, a fact which the woman found distinctly amusing. Westeros' titles were of little concern to the Eastern peoples, especially to those as deep in the East as Asshai. If he had been trying to assure her consent, he had failed in that particular attempt. She suspected not, however, as the price that this Lord Varys was willing to pay for her services was ridiculous, and most certainly meant to be bribe. Bribe as it may be, the woman sent a bird accepting the job anyway. The gold she had in her possession was running frightfully low and, more pressingly, she had found her life ridden with a certain ennui as of late.

If the woman hated anything, it was boredom.

So, despite the lord's frustrating absence, the woman continued her waiting, until a young squire in a brilliant purple silk tunic arrived. "Miss Feein Che?"

"Fainche, yes." Fainche responded, only mildly bothered by the child's mispronunciation. "Like 'fine' with a 'kha' sound at the end." The Asshai'i woman's voice was remained laden with a heavy Eastern accent, despite her vain attempt to hide it. It made her seem inexperienced with the ways of Westeros and further emphasized how out of place she was within the great, imposing walls of King's Landing.

"I do hope you brought help, boy," the woman began, studying the boy's pale, frail limbs as she slipped from her perch atop one of her crates."Otherwise, my beasts might be inclined to eat the nearest piece of meat when I release them."

The boy shook his head politely, well-groomed locks rustling from the movement, as several larger boys filed into the space. These boys did not speak to her, simply bobbing their heads when she informed them on the art of moving live creatures. They all lacked tongues, she eventually realized, when one boy's heavy breathing happened to open his mouth. The fact made her stomach twist; she vaguely wondered just what sort of trouble she had wandered into.

Fainche, once the squire-boy gestured skittishly for her to follow, briefly hesitated. The beast-woman longed to crack open the cage with her beloved shadowcat, feeling a growing sense of emptiness as the distance between her and the feline widened. It had been far too long since Fainche had been without the creature - she almost felt as naked without the prowling predator beside her than she did without her sword.

Still, she followed.

The Beastmaster brushed shoulders with a countless number of people as she followed the boy's head through the impossibly crowded streets, however, only one caught her attention. It was a foul, reeking woman whose unsanitary habits allowed mold to grow in the rolls of her excess fat. The woman had no teeth that were white, her gums filled with dark-spotted bone and gaps where the rest should be. Mud and grime coated her plump, round face and alert eyes stood out behind a mop of greasy brown locks. "Ah, m-me sorry milady," the beggar woman cried softly, hobbling away quickly after. The encounter was nothing of note, if one disregarded the woman's eyes.

Fainche had, on several occasions, interacted with the lesser peoples of the realm due to a job, a petty bout of revenge or simply being poor herself. None of them had eyes such as that woman's. The baseborn 'trash' as the highborns so fancied to dub them, had hungry eyes. Eyes that longed for an escape from the constant gnawing in their stomachs and the malnourished aches that plagued their bones. None of them had eyes that were as aware, as focused as that woman's had been.

Fainche let the curiosity, the mild perturbed pinprick of a feeling in the recesses of her mind fade. She was not here to stick her nose where it did not belong.

And so, she followed.

The boy led her through the maze of stone walls with swift feet. Up chipping stairs of limestone worn by countless pairs of feet, past the grand majesty of Visenya's Hill, through the shadow of the Great Sept of Baelor whose reaching spires seemed to pierce the skies, and passing the chaos of the crowded, ever-busy Muddy Way. The impossibly black marble of the Alchemist's Guildhall dominated the left of the horizon. The pale red stone of the Red Keep turned a bloody crimson under the light of the setting sun. King's Landing was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a continuous juxtaposition of magnificence and filth. Fainche was not comforted by the city's indecisive nature, it was too much like one of her beasts. Except this time, she feared, she would be completely helpless to tame its unstable nature.

The journey up and into the depths of the bloody Red Keep was a wary one. The boy had not slowed his quick-footed pace, yet the suspicious eyes of the heavily armored guards on her was unnerving. Her skin blossomed with goosepimples, as she felt their helmet-hidden eyes crawl across her, watching her like a wild animal. Fainche suddenly felt the want to slink into the shadows and never enter the walls of the Red Keep again.

Yet, she continued to follow.

"Boy, are we almost there?" Fainche inquired, her long strides quickly bringing her in-step beside the boy. The boy nodded curtly in response, speeding ahead of the woman and up a side staircase that ran up and into the depths of the keep.

Windows, displaying the glimmering ship-filled expanse of Blackwater Bay, lined the hallways. She watched people, tiny dots in the distance, going about the River Gate as the pair followed the curve of the hallway. Merchants and sailors unloading their wares and scurrying to taverns and whorehouses to indulge in pleasures they rarely participated in. Men in gleaming suits of armor stood out amongst the common rabble, parting the sea of chaos. Fainche found the docks of the River Gate oddly comforting - ports were the same anywhere one went, from the across the Narrow Sea to the docks of the Free Cities to the Jade Sea ports of Asshai.

Sharp, amber eyes flittered away from the scenery, to the dark oak and iron door the boy had stopped before. Inky black eyebrows knitted in contemplation, Fainche weighing her next decision. Pros and cons. Benefits and risks. A curious gnawing consumed her gut. She was nervous - fearful, almost - about the path Fainche had forged in front of herself.

Gold, Fainche reminded herself, think of all that gold. Fainche supposed she should feel guilt over selling herself and her beasts for money. She refused such a burden, however. Fainche had not been morally correct enough to struggle when she could kill, steal and whore herself out for a few coins to get her by. Compared to her former occupations, this was the most forgiving, and so Fainche swallowed her doubt. If anything, this job was promising to be rather interesting for her.

Fainche turned to thank the boy who had led her to her employer, only to find no boy remained. A small smile danced on the edges of her lips, the childish spark of mischief gleaming in deep yellow eyes, as she moved to knock on the iron-banded door.

This is my first story I have posted onto and it may turn out to be rather horrible, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless. Reviews are encouraged! I would like to know what you all think of this chapter and the character so far. Have you guessed her employer yet?

See you all soon!