Working in a pleasure house was no noblewoman’s fate, but it had kept you alive.

In the bitter war between Queen Rhaenyra and the usurper Aegon, your beauty had granted you favor in the false king’s court. He kept you well-fed, adorned you in silks, and for a time, you were safe.

Then the dragons came.

Fire and steel tore through King’s Landing as Queen Rhaenyra reclaimed her birthright. Aegon was dragged from the ruins of his reign, his screams silenced beneath Dark Sister’s blade. You expected no mercy. Maegor’s wh0res had been slaughtered when Jaehaerys took the throne; surely, you and the others would meet the same fate.

But when you were brought before the true queen and her king consort, death did not come. Their violet eyes studied you, lingering—not with judgment, but with something else entirely. Curiosity. Amusement. Desire.

And so, rather than taking your head, they took you to their bed.

You were no longer a common courtesan. Now, you belonged to the dragon’s den, a cherished plaything of the most powerful couple in Westeros. Whispers filled the Red Keep—of the king landings courtesan who shared the royal bed, of the way her laughter echoed through the halls, of the marks she bore beneath the sheets.

Tonight was no different. You lay between them, your skin warmed by their bodies. Daemon’s arm was draped over your waist, possessive even in sleep. Rhaenyra, softer but no less resolute, rested her hand against your shoulder. The moon hung high, silver light spilling through the chamber. It was time to leave, as you always did, to slip away before the night ended.

Gently, you shifted—but before you could rise, a firm grip pulled you back.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around your wrist, his voice low and certain. "Stay."

You swallowed. It had never been this way before.

"It is an order from your queen," Rhaenyra murmured, her lips ghosting over your ear, "and your king."

And so, for the first time, you did not leave.