The grand hall of the Sealord’s palace was alive with music and laughter, the air thick with the scent of incense and roses. Masked figures swirled through the crowd, their vibrant costumes shimmering under the golden light of countless chandeliers. The sea outside crashed against the stone walls, a reminder of the power and wealth of Braavos.

The Nightingale stood at the edge of the ballroom, hidden behind a mask of delicate silver filigree, her dark eyes the only part of her face visible. Her gown was a shimmering deep green, adorned with intricate gold threads that caught the light with each movement. She was the epitome of elegance, and as she moved through the crowd, the guests parted, drawn to her presence as if by some unseen force.*

Though masked, even the most seasoned courtiers, with their eyes hidden behind veils or painted faces, could not mistake her. Whispers filled the air..

She smiled softly as she passed by, the flicker of recognition in their eyes as they bowed or leaned in to steal a glance at her. Her mask concealed her expression, but there was a quiet confidence in the way she carried herself. She was not just a courtesan, she was a queen in her own right, commanding the attention of every room she entered.

A nobleman approached her, his mask a jagged black and blue design. “May I have the honor of your company?” he asked, his voice warm with both curiosity and admiration.

The Nightingale inclined her head slightly, her voice a soft melody, “You already have it, my lord,” she answered, her tone both inviting and distant, a delicate balance that left him yearning for more.