In the study at Winterfell, the fire blazed in the hearth.
Reek knelt on the floor, wiping the Cowhide Boots on Lynn's feet over and over with a soft piece of deerskin.
He worked carefully, putting all his strength into it.
As though this were the most sacred task in the world.
His head hung low, his long, greasy hair hiding his face and making his expression impossible to see.
The room was quiet.
There was only the swish of deerskin rubbing against cowhide and the crackle of burning wood in the hearth.
Lynn reclined in a comfortable armchair with his eyes closed, seemingly dozing.
To his left, Miranda was intently trimming his nails.
She used a small pair of Silver Scissors to carefully snip away the excess.
Then she smoothed the edges with an even smaller nail file.
Her movements were gentle, as though she were sculpting a flawless work of art.
She breathed softly, afraid of disturbing the man resting with his eyes closed.
To Lynn's right, Roslin held a silver tray with a cup of wine on it.
She simply stood there in silence.
Yet her gaze kept drifting uncontrollably from Miranda's absorbed profile to the figure on the floor, as lowly as dust.
An indescribable mix of emotions stirred within her.
She watched Miranda.
In just a few short days, this woman had slipped perfectly into the role of a "maid," performing it even better than Roslin, and with even more... natural ease.
The wildness of a hunter within her had been perfectly wrapped in a carefully cultivated air of obedience and allure.
Every movement, every frown and smile seemed rehearsed a thousand times, precisely attuned to a man's desires.
She was like a vine that knew exactly how to wind around a great tree, binding