Lys, Nightfall
The pleasure house stood at a bend in the canal, where swan boats drifted by on the water. Brightly painted doors opened onto an entryway draped with silk panels that stirred in the breeze, softening the sound of voices and footsteps. Inside, under the warm glow of lamplight, a lute strummed a slow, languid tune. Laughter broke out here and there, mingling with murmured conversations and the shuffle of dancers' feet across polished wood. The air was heavy with incense, a sweet haze that hung like a veil.
A man in close-fitting clothes stepped through the doors. He paused to take in the room, his gaze passing over men and women in loose silks, their bodies winding to the rhythm of the music. When he caught sight of a girl carrying a tray of drinks, he stopped her with a word and asked for the mistress of the house. She pointed toward the far side of the hall, and he moved that way.
The mistress reclined on a low chaise near the stair. She wore the fashion of Lys, where modesty was scarce: a thin silk gown, the color of seafoam clung to her shape and fell open at the thigh, tempting passing men to look twice. A single strand of pearls wound through her piled hair, framing the smooth line of her neck.
She regarded the man the way one might study a ripe peach at market, lips curving into a sly grin.
"M-mm… you don't look like the sort who carries a song," she murmured, amusement in her voice.
"The Targaryen princess," he said.
"Ah~" Her grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. "Your taste is either very fine… or very foolish. Perhaps both!" She rose with unhurried grace, silk whispering down her body like water. "Most men ask for her with steadier voices, you know! Older men~... her special preference!" Her gaze flicked to his chest, where the faint outline of a seal pressed through his tunic. "And~… most do not bring Westerosi wax to a Lyseni door."
"It is for her," he replied. "From the Queen."
"Hm-mm…" The mistress lifted one brow, her smile never fading. "Queens may write, yes… but daughters…" She tipped her head toward the stair with a teasing smirk.
"You may ask. Whether she answers or not… that is hers to decide."
They climbed beneath a painted ceiling alive with sea nymphs chasing fish through rolling waves. The hallway bent, and the sounds from below faded, muffled as though the silk-draped walls had swallowed them whole. The mistress halted before a half-open door.
"All yours~" she said with the same sly smile. "But take care… she has little patience for men like you."
With that, she left him, her parting look a promise that she would be near enough to hear if anything inside went amiss.
He pressed his palm to the door and pushed slowly. The chamber beyond was a play of lamplight and shadow, divided by a screen that bisected the space. From behind it came soft voices, low and coaxing, the intimate murmur of lovers.
Stepping past the screen, he found them on a couch near the open balcony: Princess Saera, and the man whose bare arm rested across her pale white shoulder. Their hands lingered on each other, tracing and teasing as they whispered close.
He cleared his throat and tapped a knuckle against the wooden table.
Saera turned her head. She was not startled; only annoyed at being asked to look away. Her hair gleamed with pale silver-gold, pinned high yet spilling in a loose fall over one shoulder. Her mouth curved in a shape that carried both amusement and indifference. The blood of Old Valyria marked her plainly, the same sharp beauty seen in King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne.
Yet it was her body that held the eye. She wore beauty like a dare, wrapped in pink silk that revealed far more than it concealed. A narrow strip crossed her chest, tied carelessly at the side, baring the smooth line of her shoulders and deepening into an alluring cleavage between her perfect breasts. Another length of silk clung to her hips, sliding against her thigh with every shift, showing more than it hid. Nothing in her attire was meant to disguise; it was meant to tempt, to provoke, to remind any watcher of what lay just beyond reach.
The man swallowed hard, heat coiling in his chest and sinking low through his body. His sleeve brushed a lacquered side table, sending a small bowl rattling to the floor with a sharp thud that cut through the air.
The lover glanced over with irritation. "This room was not yours to enter," he said in a rough tone.
The man bowed his head slightly, steadying his breath. "Forgive me. I was told to deliver this by hand." From his chest he drew a folded letter. The red wax caught the lamplight, stamped with the dragon's seal.
Saera made no move to take it. "From whom?" she asked, though her tone carried the certainty of someone who already knew the answer.
"From Queen Alysanne," he answered.
The name shifted the ambience in the room.
Saera's eyes went to the seal, then back to the man. She reached for her cup and drank, unbothered by the hand still on her shoulder. "Leave us," she told her companion with a bored voice.
The lover hesitated, then rose reluctantly, heading towards the door, brushing the man with a look that wished him poor health.
Silence settled. Saera set her cup down and stood slowly, coming closer with unhurried steps as her hips swayed from side to side. The silk at her curves gave a soft sigh as they brushed against her skin. A clever grin formed on her face as she caught the man watching.
"New," she said, considering him. "Not the old one with bad teeth. And not the other with the spotted cloak. You are younger…"
She stepped closer and traced her hands on his chest. Her perfume spread across the man's breath.
Seeing a princess, and in such clothes, ignited a forbidden desire in the man. He quickly swatted her hand away.
She smiled, pleased. She lifted a hand as if to take the letter, then let her fingers drift, not quite touching him. She circled once, as if studying a statue. He felt being weighed for many measures at once.
"Name?" she asked.
He gave it.
"House?"
"N-none that would impress you."
"Honesty~" she teased. "Charming!" She stepped close enough that the silk at her chest brushed lightly against him, her breath warm on his jaw. She smelled of citrus and something sweet. "Will you tell me what is inside before I read it?"
"I do not know, princess. It is sealed."
"Princess," she repeated, tasting the word as if to see whether it soured. "You bring odd titles to odd doorways." Her hand hovered near his chest again, but this time he did not remove it. "You should not lead with family when you come to find me. It makes me poor company… "
He tried to hold the room steady. "I am not here to argue blood, your…" He stopped short of the title she had just mocked. "I am here because the Queen wished for it."
Saera's gaze flicked to the letter again. There was a smile at one corner of her mouth. "The Queen wishes many things," she said. "She did not wish her daughter to be …like this" she gave a coy smile, "Yet here I am…" She turned, and the silk at her back slid like a wave. "Come," she added, pointing him toward the balcony.
They stepped out under a sky the color of ripe plums. Below, boats moved like thoughts. A boy on a bridge tossed petals into the canal; girls laughed and stole them back. Saera leaned on the rail, bare foot tipping the fallen bowl with her toe. The man kept the letter on a small table beside.
The letter lay untouched on the table. She regarded it as one might a fly.
"For a letter," she went on, her grin widening. "You carry it so seriously. Men usually cross seas for softer reasons." Her eyes raked him from head to heel. "For silk sheets. For a warm body. For forgetting their wives."
"I was sent," he insisted, holding his ground.
"Of course you were," Saera purred. "All men are sent by something. A king's coin, a queen's word, their own… cock. Tell me, which leash do you wear tonight?"
His jaw clenched, but he didn't answer.
She laughed coquettishly, stepping nearer until the heat of her body brushed the edge of his restraint. "A dutiful little hound," she teased. "Faithful enough to carry a letter across the Narrow Sea, but not brave enough to admit he'd rather carry something else." Her fingers drifted over his chest, nails grazing through cloth. "And~... that's why I let you stay."
Her hand slid lower, deliberate, until he caught her wrist.
"I came for the Queen's word," he said, firmer.
"And yet your hand holds me as if you came for mine," she continued, twisting her wrist in his grip until his palm pressed against her breast. The silk shifted, and he felt the flesh beneath; soft, warm and real.
His breath hitched. He should have pulled away, every thought screamed it, but his hand did not move.
"That's better," she whispered. "Letters wait. Queens wait. But a man's want never waits."
She tugged at the knot on her shoulder. The strip of silk loosened and fell, baring her chest fully. Her breasts were pale and full, glamorous, tipped with a dusky pink, rising and falling with her laughter. She leaned closer until they brushed against his chest
"Tell me," she said, lips at his ear, her breath warm, "will you ride back to Westeros and tell your Queen, her daughter was drinking wine, or will you tell her you tasted… her daughter?"
His throat tightened. "I…"
She didn't let him finish. Her mouth found his neck, tongue trailing like fire against his skin. One hand rose to his collar, tugging it loose, while the other guided his free hand down her waist to the swell of her hip.
He groaned despite himself, his body betraying him.
Saera smiled against his throat, her voice a husky whisper. "Good~"
She stepped back only to push the last of the silk away. Her body glistened faintly in the shallow light, pale curves and smooth lines. She turned slowly, showing him the dip of her back and the roundness of her hips, the teasing sway of a woman who knew how to provoke the beast inside a man.
"Come then~" she said, her voice low and taunting. "How many men who serve the Crown can say they've tasted a princess? A fruit reserved for kings and lords… and yet here I am. For you~"
Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled him down to her, kissing him hard, her tongue parting his lips as his hands roamed her bare skin. The table rattled when her back pressed against it, the red dragon seal forgotten, sliding into a corner.
He tried to think of duty, of the Queen's eyes, of the wax seal that had carried him across the sea. But the scent of Saera's hair, the feel of her breasts against his chest, the heat of her thighs parting for him, all of it drowned out thought.
Clothes were stripped away in hurried pulls, the sound of fabric tearing mixing with their ragged breaths. Saera giggled into his mouth, as she guided him between her legs. "That's it~" she whispered, her words rolling like silk, "Now… M-mghm!"
The letter lay where it had been placed, its wax unbroken, while the room filled with the sounds of flesh, grunts and moans.
***
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