Legacy of Fire and Sand

Chapter 11: Paranoia and Distractions

The morning sun had barely risen, and Ashara was already awake, the weight of the threatening letter pressing down on her mind. She sat up in bed, the memory of the night before lingering like a comforting haze. Quentyn and Nymeria still slept soundly, their faces peaceful and unaware of the storm brewing inside her.

Ashara slipped out of bed, careful not to wake them, and dressed quickly. She needed to keep busy, to distract herself from the gnawing fear that threatened to consume her. The brothel was already stirring to life, and she knew that her clients would demand her attention.

As she moved through the hallways, she found herself constantly glancing over her shoulder, every shadow and whispered conversation setting her on edge. She couldn't afford to let her guard down, not with the threat hanging over her. The letter had been clear: someone knew her true lineage, and they intended to make sure she wouldn't live past the next moon.

She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The scent of incense and the sounds of laughter and moans from the various rooms reminded her of where she was and what she needed to do. Ashara couldn't let fear control her. She had to focus on the present, on her work, and on the people who relied on her.

Entering the main parlor, she was greeted by familiar faces—both clients and fellow workers. She forced a smile, her practiced charm slipping into place as she moved from person to person.

"Good morning, my lords and ladies," she purred, her voice dripping with allure. "I trust you all had a restful night?"

One of her regular clients, Lord Martell, approached her with a playful grin. "Ashara, my dear, you always brighten my mornings. How about a drink to start the day?"

Ashara chuckled, taking the flask he offered. "Here, drink it's better than that pisswater you have." She held the flask out towards him, and he raised a skeptical brow. "I just drank it, and I don't do poison, my lord. That's a woman's way... I can take down my trousers, and you could see I am not a woman... or you can touch it if you wish, it doesn't bite."

Lord Martell laughed, shaking his head. "Always so cheeky, Ashara."

"I can't say the same about myself," she teased, her eyes twinkling mischievously. She handed the flask back to him and leaned in closer. "You say that, but I know it's the same stare of a dragon who's gone hungry."

"Well, it has been a long journey on sea... and my bed has felt as empty as yours," she whispered, pressing her body slightly against his. "Do you wish for me to change that? I can keep you and your bed warm tonight, or somewhere else... maybe I could bend you over that table and fuck all the pieces into the right place."

Lord Martell's eyes darkened with desire, but before he could respond, Ashara pulled away, her laugh light and airy. "Don't fear my stare, my lord."

She continued to move through the brothel, flirting and engaging with clients, each interaction a temporary reprieve from the anxiety gnawing at her. She poured drinks, shared jokes, and allowed her hands to linger just a bit longer than necessary, all the while keeping a vigilant eye on her surroundings.

As the day wore on, the brothel grew busier. Ashara threw herself into her work, using the flurry of activity to distract herself. She entertained lords and ladies, each one vying for her attention and the privilege of her company. Her charm was intoxicating, and she reveled in the power she held over them, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.

By the time evening fell, Ashara was exhausted but determined to keep going. She couldn't afford to stop, not when the fear of the letter still loomed over her. She was in the middle of entertaining a group of nobles when a loud, arrogant voice cut through the noise of the brothel.

"Where is she? Where is the famous Targaryen whore?" The room fell silent as a tall, handsome man stumbled in, clearly drunk and full of bravado. "I've heard stories all the way from Westeros about her talents."

Ashara's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing. She forced a smile and stepped forward, her eyes locking onto the man's. "And who might you be, to come here and demand my presence so boldly?"

The man grinned, swaggering over to her. "I
am Ser Lyonel, and I intend to bed the last Targaryen tonight."

Ashara felt a surge of anger and fear but masked it with a sultry laugh. "You must be quite confident, Ser Lyonel, to think you can handle a dragon."

Ser Lyonel laughed, his eyes raking over her body. "I think I can manage."

As she led him away, her mind raced. The letter's threat was real, and now there was a loud, arrogant man making a scene. She had to stay focused, to play her part perfectly. She couldn't afford any mistakes.

Once they were in a private room, Ashara turned to face him, her demeanor shifting. "You talk a big game, Ser Lyonel. Let's see if you can back it up."