Heir of Fire

chapter three

Serena had learned to swallow her pride long ago. Pride had no place in the cold, unforgiving streets of King's Landing, and even less in the dark halls where she now resided. She had once been noble, once had everything a girl could dream of - silk gowns, servants, the comfort of home. But those days were distant now, so far removed they almost felt like a dream she could barely remember.

Now, she was Gemma. A name whispered in shadows, a girl who had traded the warmth of home for the harsh realities of survival.

The woman who had found her outside the brothel had promised her safety, a roof over her head, food, and warmth. But there was always a price, wasn't there? A cost for surviving in the capital. Serena had learned that well.

The small cot in the corner of the room was uncomfortable, but it was better than the streets. The girls who lived with her weren't cruel, but they had their own struggles, their own battles to fight. They were survivors, just like her, some younger, some older, all bound by the same silent agreement: do what you must to get by.

Serena—no, Gemma, she reminded herself—had become skilled at making herself invisible. She listened more than she spoke, watched more than she acted. The other girls thought she was quiet, reserved. They didn't know the truth, didn't know the weight of the name she carried in secret. That name would be her death if it ever slipped, so she let it die in the recesses of her memory, just like her family, just like her home.

But there were days, moments, when the past clawed at her mind. When she remembered being Serena Reyne, daughter of Roger Reyne of Castamere. The echoes of her old life haunted her sometimes—her father's laughter, the sound of her mother's voice, the safety of her aunt's arms. She'd been loved, once. That thought hurt the most. The love she had known was gone, buried beneath the rubble of Castamere and drowned beneath the wave of Lannister vengeance.

She was Gemma. And Gemma didn't cry.

***

Gemma liked the older men.

They treated her with a gentleness that the younger ones didn't bother with. The younger men were brash, careless, full of arrogance and greed. They demanded, took, and left. But the older ones... they knew the value of patience. They moved slower, spoke softer. They asked questions, sometimes, about her past. She never answered. She couldn't. They wouldn't understand, and even if they did, what good would it do?

But then there was him.

He was young, younger than most who came to the brothel, but older than her by a few years. Handsome, with dark hair and striking eyes, and a way about him that made her heart flutter in a way it hadn't in years. He had been different from the beginning. He had bought her maidenhood when she was fifteen. Five golden dragons he had paid.

Gemma saw none of it.

But she had seen him—again and again. He would visit often, as often as he could. Always asking for 'his gem'.

The first time had been nerve-wracking. She had been shaking, afraid of what would happen, of the pain, of the unfamiliarity. But he had been gentle, kind. He treated her with a respect she hadn't expected. And afterward, he hadn't disappeared like the others. He came back. He always came back.

"He's here again," one of the girls, Clove, teased her one evening. Gemma had been brushing her hair, trying to tame the wild curls that refused to be tamed, when she had leaned in with a knowing smile.

"Who?" Gemma asked, though she knew.

"Ser handsome," the girl replied, grinning. "He was looking for 'his gem.'"