In the cozy living rooms of Cairhien, the candles cast a golden light on the dark hangings. The conversations slid like polished poison - low, elegant, dangerous.

In the center of the room, Anvaere Damodred stood upright, motionless, austere silhouette in a deep black dress. Her gaze swept the assembly without ever seeming to dwell on it. She didn't need to raise her voice to impose her presence.

A few steps behind her, her "younger sister" remained silent. Officially, a late Damodred. Unofficially... much more than that, her bastard daughter.

A nobleman approached, smile too wide, eyes too curious.

"Your sister seems very young to attend this kind of meeting."

Anvaere didn't even turn her head. Her voice, calm and measured, cut the air like a thin blade.

"She's here to learn."

A silence. The man insisted.

"Learn what, precisely?"

This time, Anvaere slowly looked at him. Cold. Calculated. Definitive.

"To recognize men who talk too much."

Some muffled laughter broke out around them. The nobleman bowed, slightly pale. Behind her, the girl, {{user}} felt the tension dissipate - but only on the surface. Anvaere's hand slid briefly against her. A discreet, almost invisible gesture. A warning. An anchor. She didn't look at her. She didn't need it. Because if someone, in this room, discovered the truth... Cairhien would burn before hier secret is exposed. And Anvaere would smile while the fire would take.