The night mist of the Street of Silk wafted with the scent of ambergris and bitter almonds. The widest plaza was illuminated by twelve gilded lanterns, their light casting dappled, colorful spots on the flagstones through stained glass, like spilled wine.
When Daemon Targaryen skillfully pushed open the oak doors carved with intertwined serpents, the silver bells on the door handle jingled softly, weaving with the music and laughter inside into a decadent melody.
"Come in, little brother." Daemon Targaryen stepped aside to let him pass, his cane tapping a thud-thud on the carpet. "The sweetest honey in the Seven Kingdoms is right here."
Daemon Blackfyre stood at the door, his brow furrowed deep.
The pervasive sweet scent in the air reminded him of the rotting camp follower tents on Redgrass Field—thick layers of powder could never mask the sour smell beneath.
The scene inside tightened his stomach even more: women in gauze skirts gyrated on men's laps; bejeweled nobles drank with bare-shouldered dancers in their arms; in the corner, a couple kissed as if no one else existed, silver bells on the woman's ankles jingling with their movements.
"You promised only one hour." He lowered his voice, his irritation practically spilling over.
He knew this namesake great-grandfather "brother" had debts of passion stretching from King's Landing to Storm's End, but he hadn't expected to be dragged directly into a place like this.
"Indeed, only one hour." Daemon Targaryen grinned like a cat that stole the cream, his purple eyes flashing slyly in the lantern light. "But I have to show you the adult world, lest you get tricked by those noble ladies in the future."
Just as he finished speaking, a woman in a tight scarlet dress swayed over. She was about forty, fine lines at her eyes mostly hidden by powder, a pearl necklace rising and falling gently with her breath. It was Mela, the madam of this "Hall of Joy."
"My, isn't this our esteemed Prince Daemon?" Her voice was like honey-soaked sandpaper, sweet and rough. "How long has it been since you graced us with business? Is the bronze beauty of Runestone more fragrant than our flowers of the Street of Silk?"
"Cut the chatter." Daemon Targaryen familiarly patted her rear. "Any new arrivals? I brought my little brother to broaden his horizons." He nodded toward Daemon Blackfyre. "Bring my brother a cup of 'Fledgling's Wine'; let him see the world."
Mela's gaze instantly stuck to Daemon Blackfyre like glue, sweeping from his long silver-white hair to the hilt of Blackfyre at his waist, finally resting on his tight jawline. "This young lord is truly handsome."
She licked her lips and waved over a group of girls. "Come keep our esteemed guest company! Especially this little one—fine skin and tender flesh, I bet he hasn't tasted a woman yet?"
The women immediately swarmed around, bringing waves of perfume. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman reached out to touch his hair, but Daemon Blackfyre dodged sideways; another in a green dress tried to burrow into his arms, but he pressed her shoulder down with enough force to make her frown in pain.
"Don't scare the little fledgling." Mela giggled, personally bringing a cup of amber wine, a cherry perched on the rim. "Try it? It's brewed with nectar from across the Narrow Sea; it has quite a kick."
Daemon Blackfyre looked at the wine, then at Daemon Targaryen's teasing eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he took it. He couldn't lose composure here, or at least couldn't let these people see his disgust.
The liquid carried a cloying floral sweetness as it went down, followed by a warm current sliding down his throat, soothing his tense nerves slightly.
"That's the spirit." Daemon Targaryen patted his back. "Men need to drink something strong." He turned to the girls, pointing at three of them. "You three come with me; the rest of you take good care of my brother."
A buxom woman suddenly laughed, reaching to undo Daemon Blackfyre's belt. "Little lord, don't be shy. Sister here will initiate you for free, guaranteed to make it unforgettable."
Daemon Blackfyre gripped the cup tightly, knuckles turning white. He could feel the warmth inside him gradually turning into a burning heat, and the figures before him seemed to start swaying. He forced himself to look down, pretending to focus on tasting the wine, putting on a cold "stay away" demeanor.
Only after selecting his girls did Daemon Targaryen leisurely turn back. Seeing Daemon Blackfyre surrounded by women, some even boldly stuffing scented handkerchiefs into his tunic, he couldn't help but laugh loudly. "Alright, alright, give him some space." He walked to Daemon Blackfyre, deliberately raising his voice. "My brother is particular about cleanliness; you old veterans don't crowd him." He turned to Mela, raising an eyebrow. "Are there no cleaner fledglings? A fledgling needs a fledgling to be a proper match."
Mela's eyes rolled, and she clapped her hands. "Bring Mysaria here." Moments later, a girl in a pale purple gauze dress was pushed forward.
She looked no more than fifteen or sixteen, skin white as milk, platinum-blonde hair braided into two long plaits hanging over her chest. Her eyes were big and bright but held a panicked, uneasy look, like a frightened deer.
"She just arrived from Lys," Mela introduced with a smile. "Dances excellently, and still a maiden."
Daemon Targaryen decided immediately. "Her, then." He winked at Daemon Blackfyre. "Enjoy yourself, brother." With that, he put his arms around three girls and went upstairs whistling, the sound of his cane hitting the stairs fading away.
Daemon Blackfyre watched his back disappear around the corner, cursing silently, Forsaking friends for lust. Just then, the heat inside him suddenly surged, ten times stronger than before, like a fire burning in his organs.
He shook his head, trying to stay awake, but found the girl's figure beginning to duplicate, and the scent of powder became enticing. "Esteemed guest, upstairs please." Mela's voice seemed to come from far away, carrying an undisguised smirk. She clearly knew the potency of the "Fledgling's Wine" and was waiting for the show.
The girl named Mysaria timidly reached out, her fingertips cold. Daemon Blackfyre wanted to shake her off, but his arm was too weak to obey.
Seeing this, several of the women who had surrounded him earlier came up to help—some lifting arms, some lifting legs—half-pushing, half-carrying him toward the stairs.
"Need our help, Little Worm?" one woman teased. "This fledgling is hard to handle." Mysaria suddenly blushed red, pushing them away forcefully. "No! I'll do it myself!" Her Lysene accent carried a tremor but revealed a trace of stubbornness.
The women dispersed laughing, not forgetting to cop a feel on Daemon Blackfyre before leaving.
One woman leaned close to his ear, breathing heavily: "Come find me later, half price." Another pinched his butt: "Free for me!"
By the time he was carried to the second floor, Daemon Blackfyre had very little reason left.
He could feel Mysaria's hands shaking, hear the faint music from downstairs, and even smell the increasingly strong alcohol on himself.
His remaining consciousness screamed No, but his body felt boneless, limp enough to need support.
Mysaria pushed him into a secluded private room containing only a large bed covered in velvet and a flickering silver lamp.
She locked the door and turned around, tears suddenly falling. "Esteemed guest, I'm sorry... I have to do this..." She choked up. "If Mama Mela knows I didn't serve you well, she'll sell me to a slaver ship..."
Daemon Blackfyre looked at her tear-streaked face, wanting to say something, but his throat felt blocked.
The drug's effect thoroughly swallowed his reason. The girl's figure before him overlapped with a vague face in his memory. The heat rushed madly through his blood, screaming for an outlet.
The last things he heard were his own heavy breathing and the girl's suppressed sobs.
Outside the window, a dragon roar seemed to sound—very far, very blurry, like a hallucination.
He didn't know what mark this night would leave on history, nor that the weeping Lysene girl in his arms was the infamous "Mysaria the White Worm" hidden in the corners of history.
The halo of the silver lamp swayed on the wall, stretching two entangled shadows long, like a secret about desire and descent known to no one.
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