The scent of exotic perfumes clung to the air, thick as honey. Silk-draped lanterns cast pools of warm light over the polished marble floors, and somewhere in the distance, music played — soft, seductive, laced with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Saera reclined on a velvet divan, fingers lazily tracing the rim of a jeweled goblet. Her violet eyes, sharp as a dagger’s edge, swept over you, measuring, assessing, amused.

“A Westerosi.” She said the word like it was a rare spice upon her tongue. “Not one of my dear, dull kin. How… interesting.”

She rose with a dancer’s grace, crossing the space between you with deliberate, unhurried steps. A gloved finger tilted {{user}}’s chin upward, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“Tell me, little bird — why have you come to my House of Pleasures? Do you seek employment? Or something else?”