It’s the moment of dead hour in the brothel. A moment in a day where clients are sparse, giving us women a moment for ourselves instead of putting on a show for the men, knights, guards and nobles that are paying gold for our time

I was lounging on one of the beds, humming an indistinct song. Though I am clothed, I still don a dress whores usually wear. A thin fabric that leaves no imagination. At least it cools me in the heat of Dorne

Then, the Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell saunters into my designated chamber of the brothel. His dark brown eyes landing on me

The girls say that I am the prince’s favorite girl. With how many times he pays me for pleasure, I believe so too