Ice Warm

'If I told them half of it, would they believe me?'

-'The Early Musings of Prince Rhaenar' by Brien Flowers

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Nightlife in King's Landing was a pandemonium of activity: jugglers, sword swallowers, fortune tellers, dancers, mummers, singers, scam artists, fire breathers, magicians, and performers of all kinds filled the streets.

 Amidst the chaos, one could glimpse a couple passionately entwined in the shadows of an alley, or witness a tightrope walker navigating the rooftops above.

"Follow me."

Prince Rhaenar gently guided Mysaria, his arm offering support as they strolled the streets.

Daemon trailed behind, a smirk on his lips.

Warmth. That's what she felt, as Rhaenar asked her questions, laughed at her jokes, reveled in her smile. How he pointed to this street and told of its secrets, how he hailed each merchant and introduced her.

Indeed, the more she was around Prince Rhaenar, the more she held his hand, the more the heat increased. 

Suddenly her senses were aware.

Mysaria could see the slight nods of deference as they strolled by. How children seemed to shadow them with intention, to slither away into alleys. 

Eyes upon eyes upon eyes.

Rhaenar took a swig from a leather skin bottle. "Care for some?"

Without hesitation, Mysaria accepted.

"What is it?"

"Try it. You won't regret."

Her eyes sparkled as she tasted the drink. "This is—"

"Shh, my lady," Rhaenar interrupted with a playful smile. "Let's not spoil the surprise for my uncle."

Mysaria grinned mischievously and offered the bottle to Daemon.

He took a swig and coughed.

"What in the fuck is this?" Daemon exclaimed after recovering.

Mysaria and Rhaenar exchanged amused glances.

"Spiced rum from the Summer Isles," Rhaenar explained. "Guaranteed to put hairs on your chest in record time."

Daemon nodded, taking another sip and relishing the warmth that spread through his throat.

He couldn't help but notice that Mysaria handled her drink with more finesse than he did.

Rhaenar led them towards the north side of the city, where the looming Old Gate cast shadows in the moonlight, veiling their features.

They found themselves on an upper-middle class street, each townhouse appearing unremarkable.

Rhaenar halted in front of one and knocked three times with authority.

The door's eye slit opened, revealing beady eyes.

"Who goes there?" came a thick Flea Bottom accent.

"Your mother," Rhaenar quipped. "Open up."

"My Prince!"

The gatekeeper's demeanor shifted immediately. "Right away!"

Stepping inside, they were greeted by a scene of hedonism: servants circulated with trays of wine and snacks, and naked bodies combined in various corners.

A man stood atop a table, belting out a drunken tune.

"Quite the spectacle," Daemon remarked sarcastically. "Is this what you wanted to show us?"

"Not at all," Rhaenar replied with a grin. "Follow me."

Navigating through the smoke-filled room, they reached a large chamber transformed into a makeshift theater. 

A rowdy crowd filled the terraced seats, eagerly watching the performance unfolding on the stage below.

"Take a seat," Rhaenar instructed, leading them to the back, where they had a perfect view of the proceedings.

Onstage, a burly man with pallid, glistening skin and a rotund physique was fucking stunning broad doggy style. 

The audience roared with approval, cheering and hollering.

Mysaria watched with a mixture of disdain and fascination as the burly man delivered resounding slaps, eliciting cheers from the crowd. 

"He's a beast," she remarked contemptuously.

"Indeed," agreed Rhaenar, ignoring her distaste. "He's been at it for two days straight."

Daemon shook his head in disbelief. "Two days?"

"I shit you not," Rhaenar said, "He's been at it for 51 hours and counting."

Daemon couldn't decide whether to be impressed or skeptical. "That's... impossible," he murmured. "How many women do you think he's..."

"None," Rhaenar said.

Mysaria arched an eyebrow. "None?"

Rhaenar chuckled. 

"You think everyone's here just to watch him fuck? The man hasn't blown his load this entire time. It's a miracle. Word spread like wildfire, and now all the players have placed bets on whose courtesan can finally make him bust. The prize has grown to astronomical proportions."

Daemon felt a strange sense of camaraderie toward the bulky man. "Where did they find him?"

"Right here in King's Landing, born and raised," Rhaenar replied, raising his voice above the sounds of moans and cheek slapping. 

"He's the son of a pot shop owner. Consumes half their stock himself, they tell me. A friend of mine stumbled upon him and recognized his... talents. Snatched him up right away. Ah, there he is now. Hey, Arland!"

There he was.

You could smell his perfume from miles away. A dandy of epic proportions.

A handsome bastard. Long, clean brown hair, mustache and chin hair.

If Rhaenar had to compare to a past life, he'd say Arland looked like one of them conquistadors, those slick Spanish colonizers, hell bent on gold and ivory and lost cities.

Mysaria, on the other hand, read him as a typical whore monger.

She could tell by the way his pretty brown eyes slanted. His crooked smile. It didn't help he had a gold tooth that gleamed cold and chill.

And yet, Arland's voice was smooth as silk, ice warm as he took a seat next to Rhaenar.

"My Princely Prince! How good of you to come! And to bring our Lord of Fleabottom," Arland placed hand on heart and bowed in Daemon's direction, "You might well as strike me down. Am I dreaming?"

Rhaenar pulled at his collar, awfully awkward, "Stick your dream down your throat," he said, now recovered and boss like, "This is the lady Mysaria. My Uncle Daemon needs no introduction.

"May I introduce Arland, the saddest bachelor in King's Landing"

Arland raised a finger, "I beg to differ. There's no sadness on my part. Lonely is the better word."

At that point, Arland and Rhaenar gestured to servants. 

Daemon and Mysaria glanced at each other as servants poured their wine. 

Prince Daemon crossed his legs and chanced Arland with deadly poise, "I hear this fucker is your champion."

Arland's gold grin continued to creep Mysaria. She didn't like how quickly he scanned her. 

"He is our champion. His talents will take him far beyond this city. I can only hope to be present to witness the finale of this show here."

The warmth she once felt from Prince Rhaenar felt as distant and misgiving as the false promises of her past. 

Why would Rhaenar associate himself with such a man? 

She hoped her gut feeling was false. She hoped for otherwise. 

Mysaria smiled and tried to enjoy the rest of the night.

As for the burly man, they were sadly not present for the moment he busted,

It happened 10 hours after they left.

Never had King's Landing seen such a proportionate spray of jizz. 

They say he cum so deeply it burst through her and dented the wall.

Blood and white and dust.