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AEMMA. Do I embarrass you? ALYSANNE. Embarrass me? Aemma, you are my pride and joy. I could never be ashamed of you.
The servants' quarters had never been quiet― or calm, for that matter. Handmaids always bustled around, taking moments of peace when they could. Each day, maesters and cooks and squires darted in and out, asking favors or delivering items.
A soft, erratic tapping broke through the din. One of the tables had been set aside by the window, and there sat a young girl. She kicked her legs, too small to reach the floor, and her shoes on the wooden table leg created a tap-tap-tap.
"Again."
Aemma Waters looked up and huffed, blowing strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "Must I?"
Septa Maris only smiled and sat in the rickety wooden chair across from her. She had a stout frame and a round face lined with age. Her hair, which she kept beneath her hood, had gone gray, and she had piercing blue eyes that silenced even the most obnoxious of serving boys.
Aemma liked her greatly, even if she spoke too much about the gods and how to act like a proper lady. Because, for all her piety, she would occasionally slip her pupil a honeycake from the pockets of her septa's robes with a wink and a smile.
