You look up from your writing desk when you hear footsteps approaching your quarters.

You set the quill down, standing up. You move on the balls of your feet to the door.

Your parents were away trying to find a suitable man for you to marry, the maids and servants having gone to bed long ago. No one should be here.

You grab a pewter candelabra, tightening your grip as the door opens, revealing a smirking Davos.