Chapter 85
Tywin Lannister had never seen a ship like this before. He stood in the private gallery above the captain's deck, tightly gripping the polished brass rail, and glared down at the absurd pageantry unfolding below. The ship was a moving palace. That was the only way he could describe it. The cream-colored sails featured a black lion, which was the emblem his grandson had adopted, and a figurehead carved in the likeness of some topless goddess stretched out in front of the ship. Even the tree-sized masts were gilded, and the decks below glittered with inlaid onyx. It was a floating monument to Harold's wealth, and Tywin could not help but resent it.
A set of footsteps echoed on the stairs behind him. He did not turn. He already knew who it was. It was Cersei, followed by her handmaiden. The girl flitted across the gallery, her long dress cut open at the front to show nearly all of her thighs, and the fabric was so thin he could see the shape of her nipples in the morning light. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman who'd long ago decided that the rules did not apply to her. The worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it.
"The Captain asks if you wish to join them at the prow for breakfast. There is to be a display," Cersei stated, showing her usual lack of respect.
Tywin said nothing at first. He watched the endless horizon as the ship carved through the water. The spray flashed gold and silver with every wave. It was faster than any ship he'd ever set foot on, even in his years at war. It was also more stable. The rolling, bucking motion of most ships at sea was gone, replaced by a subtle, humming vibration that set his teeth on edge. "A display," he repeated.
"Yes," Cersei said, drawing out the word. "Apparently, it is tradition on Harold's flagship to welcome distinguished guests with a demonstration of the mariners' skill."
Tywin turned at last. Cersei's eyes were as green as emeralds, and they were just as calculated and cunning as his own. She wore her hair in a single, long braid that trailed down her back. Tywin had tried to dictate her wardrobe and force her into something proper, but Cersei had only ever obeyed when it amused her.
"I have no interest in watching trained monkeys perform for my benefit," Tywin said. "Tell the Captain I will take my breakfast here."
Cersei's lips twitched. She leaned on the rail beside him, close enough that he caught a faint whiff of cinnamon and perfume. "They are not monkeys," she replied. "And Harold would not be pleased to hear of such disrespect."
Tywin grunted. The Captain, a man who looked strangely similar to many of the deckhands, had so far displayed no emotion beyond a blank stare. He ran the ship with absolute authority, though, and Tywin respected that.
A shiver of rage went through him as he looked at Cersei. She was living proof of his grandson's influence. Every rule Tywin had ever set for her, every expectation of dignity and decorum, had been shattered by the bastard's endless flood of gold. Harold had made her the jewel of the world, and the envy of every woman, and in the process had stripped away Tywin's own legacy.
He said nothing more. The wind whipped at his cloak and at Cersei's gown, making it cling to her every curve. The girl was beautiful, Tywin could not deny it, but she had no sense of shame. She did not even attempt to cover herself as the morning chill raised goosebumps on her skin. Instead, she watched him with a look of sly amusement, as if waiting to see if he would snap.
She did not have to wait long. "I do not understand why it was necessary to bring you," Tywin said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are nothing more than a leech, sucking wealth from those greater than you."
Cersei's mouth opened in a little O, then she laughed outright. The sound was as sweet as honey. "Do not forget that you have your arms out, beggar bowl in hand."
Tywin sneered. "You are a fool if you think you can bend Harold to your will. He will grow tired of you, just as everyone else does," Tywin said, and then stopped. He realized the handmaiden was listening. The girl stood by the stairs, silent and still as a statue. Tywin glared at her, then jerked his chin for Cersei to dismiss her. The handmaiden bowed her head, glided away, and vanished down the stairs.
Cersei leaned closer, and her eyes narrowed in a way that reminded him sharply of himself. "You do not like this ship, do you? You have been in a foul mood since setting foot on it."
He said nothing, but she read his silence as if it were an open book.
"It is magnificent," she admitted, really rubbing salt in his open wound. "It is a true show of wealth and power. Have you seen the kitchens … or the way the bedchambers are warmed by pipes from belowdecks? We do not even feel the wind in the halls." She paused, then looked out at the raging blue sea. "When building this, I think Harold wanted to prove to everyone that he can do anything."
Tywin's jaw clenched. "I am not impressed by size or speed. All things decay, even this monstrosity."
Cersei smiled and bit her lip, as if holding back some delicious secret. "Perhaps. But it will long outlast you, do you not think?"
He wanted to slap the smugness from her face, but he would never stoop to such public violence. Instead, he gripped the rail so tightly his knuckles shone white. "How long until we arrive?"
"Half a day," Cersei said. "Though if the wind keeps, perhaps less. It is a very fast ship." She glanced up at the tallest mast. "I heard them say it could outrun a kraken. I do not know what that means, but it sounds impressive."
Tywin looked away. The girl was an idiot. She cared for nothing but the game, the spectacle, and the endless pursuit of victory. At least Cersei had the decency to hate her enemies. Cersei had inherited that same cold ambition, but none of the venom. She enjoyed plotting a little too much, in his opinion. Sometimes it was easier to just stick a knife in their back.
The sky was overcast now, and the sunlight made strange patterns on the deck. Tywin's mood darkened with the sky. He thought of King's Landing. His city was now nothing but a shit-soaked ruin in the grip of disease and the bitter chill of winter. The Lung Rot had swept through the city like wildfire, taking the old and the young first, but sparing just enough of the wretched to keep the place crawling with filth. He had lost two members of the Small Council and three of his personal guard in a single week. The Maesters had failed to find a cure. The best they could do was dig mass graves and order the sick to die quietly. The city stank of burning flesh, and the Black Cells were so full the rats had begun to chew on living meat. When Tywin's men swept through Flea Bottom, they found the gutters choked with the dead. No one even tried to count the bodies anymore.
It was only by Harold's grace that the city still existed at all. Every day, ships unloaded barrels of dried fish and salted pork onto the docks. Unloaded sacks of grain were filled to the point of bursting, and crates of exotic fruits and vegetables were so plentiful that the smallfolk often used them to feed their livestock. The city would have been a graveyard months ago if not for the bastard's bottomless generosity.
The people knew it. They gathered in the shadow of the Red Keep, screaming for Harold to return and claim the throne. In the poorest districts, they painted crude images of the Dread Lord on every blank wall. They cheered his name and cursed Tywin's.
And still, the old man clung to power. He held the city by the throat, crushed any insurrection, and made examples of anyone who dared speak against him. But every day, the grip grew weaker. Even his own household was full of spies, and the courtiers who fawned over him in the morning were just as likely to slit his throat by nightfall.
This voyage was a humiliation. Tywin knew that the bastard had planned for this. He was supposed to be king, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Instead, he had been summoned across the world to the court of a bastard grandson. It was an insult and a punishment for losing control of the realm, and he hated every moment of it.
But he had no choice. If he refused, the food shipments could stop, and the city would tear itself apart in less than a fortnight. He was unlikely to survive such an event. There was already an endless line of lords plotting to replace him.
He ground his teeth and watched the water turn to white foam beneath the ship's bow. He would survive this. He always did. He would go to this new city, this Seven Swords, and find out what made it tick. He would find the cracks in his grandson's empire, and when the time was right, he would drive a wedge into them. Then, he would return to Westeros and rule as he was born to.
The Dread Lord of Essos
There was a carnival atmosphere in Seven Swords, and as word of the visiting Westerosi had spread, every street and alley filled with anticipation and excitement. It was not just the highborn and powerful who were looking forward to the festivities … though every minor lord and landed knight within a hundred miles had found some contrived excuse to be present. It was also the lesser nobility, the merchant princes of Pentos and Lys, the coin-starved Magisters from Volantis, and the silk-robed representatives of the Guilds who were eager to be present. They brought with them retinues of guards and cooks, mummers and jugglers, and entire wardrobes of gaudy, jewel-bright silks. The influx did not stop there. The news had drawn out every beggar, peddler, and smallfolk dreamer from east of the Rhoyne to south of the Stepstones. They came by foot, riverboat, horse, mule, and raft, swelling the city's population to near bursting. The market squares were so crowded that a man might lose his child in the press and not notice until nightfall. That exact thing had happened more than once.
The excitement was not contained to the city proper. Camps of carousers and curiosity-seekers sprawled beyond the walls and along the riverbank. Sausage-makers and wine-sellers set up crude shacks beside wandering blacksmiths and sellers of hot pies. There were entire villages of tents and pavilions, each competing to outdo the others with their painted banners and creative claims of rare wares. Harry watched all of this from the highest balcony of his palace, looking down on the throng with a mixture of pride and mild disgust.
He had not expected people to come in such numbers. It was a bother, and at first, he had considered having his City Watch drive them out, but he could not bring himself to do it. For all their squabbling, the smallfolk were the reason this place functioned. They deserved a chance to profit from the spectacle just as much as the highborn, even if their methods were less refined.
But the stalls … the gods-damned stalls were another matter. The city's avenues, which he had intended to be broad and stately, were now choked with haphazard plank tables, patched-together awnings, and rough-hewn carts. Some of the smallfolk had set up so close to the King's Garden walls that the guards had to nudge them away with the flats of their spears.
It made the city look like a second-rate fairground, a point which did not escape Harry's notice. The mess of colors, the jumble of banners and cheap bunting, and the smell of fried fish and boiling dye made his eye twitch. None of it suited the image of Seven Swords he wanted to project. But there was little to be done about the chaos, short of burning the whole mess down. And that was not an option.
Instead, Harry found a compromise. First, he set all his drones to one purpose … building fancy, uniform stalls of equal size. Within a day, thousands had been built out of the blackwood he had been harvesting from Sothoryos.
Then, he sent for every tailor, seamstress, and spinner in the city and set them to a single, unified purpose … the manufacture of banners, awnings, and tablecloths. All were a coordinated design, something to give the city's uncontrolled market a look of uniformity and purpose. The design he chose was simple, but unmistakable. It was all made of cream-colored silk, shot through with gold thread around the borders, with a stylized Lion of the Night emblazoned in the center. The emblem was a black beast whose mane blazed like a crown. All of this fitted perfectly with the new stalls.
The first stalls appeared the next morning. Within two days, every stall in the city, legal or otherwise, was replaced by the new design and draped in cream and gold. The stalls that refused were quietly "lost" by the Watch in the next night's sweep. Every stall was given a space, though none of them were allowed anywhere near King's Garden. The smallfolk were delighted. The silk made the housing district look like a highborn's wedding feast, and the tablecloths became prizes in their own right. Some cunning vendors had already begun reselling them, but Harry let it go. It was a small price for the feeling of order.
Once the stalls were distributed, Harry tasked his guards with keeping the markets orderly and safe. The guards' matching black-and-gold uniforms fit the new theme, and the new visitors quickly learned to step aside for the guards' heavy boots and polished pikes. While there was little overt violence, the mere sight of a guard or two was enough to remind the smallfolk of their place. Harry watched as the guards made their rounds, sometimes pausing to haggle over a sausage or a flayfish, but mostly enforcing the rules with brisk, almost cheerful, efficiency.
Harry enjoyed being in charge of this chaotic mess. And why not? He had built this city from nothing. He had summoned the highborn from across the world, and they would definitely come. The fear of missing out was enough to guarantee it. Even the smallfolk, with their wares and their loud, quarrelsome voices, were a sign that the city was thriving.
The preparations for the Westerosi guests absorbed most of Harry's attention. He had assigned his best stewards to the task, but he could not resist checking in at every stage. The hundreds of miles of roads had been cleaned and swept, the silk banners unfurled, and the white city walls had been washed until they sparkled. The palace kitchens operated day and night, roasting boar and baking sweetmeats until the castle smelled like a never-ending feast. Florists and perfumers were everywhere, filling the halls with fresh-cut roses and pungent clouds of scented ambergris.
After a long night spent reviewing parade routes and double-checking the guest lists, Harry rose before dawn and walked the length of the city, pausing at every major intersection. He made a circuit of the market squares, trailed by a handful of guards and several very nervous clerks. The people flocked to see him. Some called out his name, but most bowed or curtsied. More than a few reached out to touch the hem of his cloak, as if hoping to gain luck or favor. Harry grinned and played the part of the benevolent king, pausing to try a honeyed fig or accept a mug of spiced ale. He made it a point to speak to every vendor who caught his eye and ask after their families and fortunes.
The air was thick with excited energy. Even the sun seemed to shine brighter, reflecting off the gold thread of the tablecloths and setting the squares ablaze with light. At the center of the main square, Harry spied a group of local children who had sewn together their own tiny banners. The biggest of the bunch waved a stick with a makeshift Lion of the Night drawn in charcoal. Harry knelt down and asked the boy if he wanted to be a knight when he grew up. The boy shook his head and said he wanted to be king. Harry laughed so hard he spilled his ale. Harry gave the children a small sack of gold and told them to go buy some toys and sweets.
The guards tried to keep the crowds from pressing too close, but Harry let them. He liked the feeling of being the center of all this excitement. Some of the older vendors called him "Your Grace," or even "Your Majesty." He pretended not to notice, but he took careful note of each one who said it. They would be handsomely rewarded.
As the morning wore on, Harry's trek brought him to the edge of the docks. He watched as the City Watch coordinated the arrival of new boats in the harbor. There were so many ships that they were forced to anchor three and four deep, and the outermost vessels were lashed together by heavy ropes. Harry saw galleys painted in Myrish blue, spike-prowed whalers from the far east, and merchant roundships from Old Volantis and Lys. There were even a few battered longboats from Westeros, their sails patched and stained with salt. The increase in ships was easy to understand. Anyone with a sea-worthy ship was bringing people to his city for the upcoming festivities … for a steep fee, Harry was certain.
At the end of the western side of the harbor, a team of dockworkers was struggling to secure a towering ship that dwarfed every other vessel in the harbor. It bore a gilded figurehead in the shape of a woman in the throes of pleasure, and its sails were freshly dyed in the same cream and gold as Harry's tablecloths. This wasn't out of the ordinary. Harry had noticed that he had become a bit of a trend setter. Harry's color schemes were now associated with wealth and power, and many of the Essosi merchants were trying to piggyback on that.
The bow was already mobbed by onlookers, and a trio of minstrels had set up an impromptu stage on the dock, playing at a pace that set the crowd stamping and hollering. Tips were, of course, collected in a feathered cap placed at the minstrels' feet. There was even a gruff-looking man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with a large oak barrel, selling malted ale to the thirsty shipmen. The ship's captain, who was a squat brute with a bushy red beard, was shouting orders in High Valyrian. Harry smiled. It was all working exactly as he had planned.
He made a quick loop around the docks, stopping to greet several of the newly arrived dignitaries. A Magister from Qohor, foppishly dressed in black velvet, kissed his ring and declared, "At your service, Dread Lord." A Westerosi knight in battered mail, his face red with drink, saluted and asked for a private audience. A young woman with the silver-blonde hair of House Targaryen presented Harry with a gift of candied orange peels, and Harry, ever the showman, ate one on the spot and declared it the best he had ever tasted. The woman blushed, and several men in the crowd laughed in appreciation.
With the sun nearly at its peak, Harry climbed the highest terrace of the palace and surveyed the city once more. The streets were now more crowded than ever, but the uniformity of the cream and gold stalls gave everything a strange sense of harmony. Still, there was so much more work that needed to be done.
The Dread Lord of Essos
Bellegere's thighs gripped Harry's waist, and she leveraged her whole body in a kind of erotic, undulating rhythm. Harry lay against the silk-cushioned headboard of her private chamber that was perfumed with expensive Myrish oil. She grinned down at him, and her black hair tumbled over her shoulders. She moved herself up and down his cock with a focus that could have been mistaken for worship if Harry didn't know how much she enjoyed the game herself.
"Have the courtesans settled in?" Harry asked, and his voice came out as a moan as Bellegere set a new, slower pace just to torment him.
She moaned dramatically, and her brown eyes fluttered before answering. "They love the city. It is so much warmer and more beautiful than Braavos." Her accent flavored every word, and she kept her hands anchored on his chest. Her nails dug in just hard enough to remind him who was really in control.
Bellegere's eyes sparkled, and she clamped down with her pussy and squeezed him with a surprising strength. Harry groaned loud enough for the guards outside to hear, not that they would dare comment. She giggled, then bounced faster, each motion punctuated by a brazenly wet squelch that echoed off the marble walls.
Harry put his hands on her hips and tried to slow her down, but Bellegere would not be tamed. She snapped her hips forward and ground herself against him, arching her back so that her heavy breasts swayed wildly. Harry was entranced by the sight. He reached up and cupped both tits in his hands, marveling at how soft and hot they felt. He rolled her dark nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and she grinned proudly.
"And your girls?" Harry rasped, fighting to keep his composure. "Will they be ready in time for the opening of the Pleasure District? Westerosi merchants, Knights, and Magisters from the Free Cities have already begun to arrive."
Bellegere let out a sharp gasp as she slammed down hard, making them both shudder. "They will be ready," she promised, her voice breathless but certain. "There is still work to be done, but the important things are finished. The houses are painted, the beds are made, and the kitchens are fully staffed. All that remains is your blessing, and …" She dipped her head low, and her hair fell around her like a curtain. She playfully nipped the side of his neck. "... a proper inaugural celebration."
"I'll give you a celebration," Harry said. He flipped her over, pinning Bellegere to the bed. She let out a delighted shriek and wrapped her legs around his waist.
"You are a brute," she said, laughing as he thrust into her with renewed vigor.
Harry grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. "I heard you like brutes," he said, and kissed her hard.
Bellegere bit his lower lip. "Only when they fuck as good as you," she said, and wrapped both arms around his neck, dragging him back down for another kiss.
They fucked with wild abandon, and the bed creaked and rocked against the stone floor. The sounds of their bodies carried out into the corridor and probably through the open windows into the street. He finished inside her with a groan that left him trembling and spent, and Bellegere milked every last drop with a slow, squeezing flutter of her pussy. She shuddered and came again, gasping and arching her back.
When it was over, Harry rolled onto his back and let Bellegere curl herself against him. Her skin was impossibly soft, and he ran a hand through her hair and kissed her on the temple, content with the way she felt against his side.
They lay there breathing heavily for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the city. The bells of the Temple of the Moon had just begun their sunset song.
Bellegere was the first to break the silence. "You are different from when I first met you," she said, tracing circles on his chest. "You act like a king now."
Harry smirked. "Do I?"
She propped herself up on one elbow. "You do. It suits you. Even the way you walk has changed. And this city …" She gestured out the window, where the cream-and-gold banners caught the last of the sun. "It all belongs to you, and everyone knows it."
Harry closed his eyes and let the words settle over him. It was true. He had made a city as close to paradise as you could possibly get. "I suppose you're right. I've tried my best to give everyone the perfect city. We're not there yet, but it's a good beginning."
Bellegere laughed softly. "Nothing is ever perfect, Harold. Not for long." She kissed his chest, then shifted so that she straddled his waist once more. "But you are right. It is a good beginning."
They talked quietly, trading gossip and rumors while the city darkened around them. Harry pressed her for information on the movements of the Braavosi bankers and the spies of Lys, while Bellegere wanted to know about the Westerners and their peculiar appetites. She had already met a dozen of them, and none had impressed her.
"Westerosi men are dull," she declared, punctuating the statement with a mock yawn. "They want to talk about their horses or their swords or their gods. You should hear what they say about the rumors about your city. They think it is just a clever sales trick. They do not understand."
"Let them believe whatever they want," Harry said. "As long as they spend their coin and go home with stories, I've done my job."
Bellegere let out a laugh that made her tits jiggle merrily. "Truer words have never been spoken."
Then there was a knock at the door. Harry shifted, pulling a sheet up over their lower bodies. "Enter," he called out in a sharp voice. Instantly, the door swung open to reveal a very nervous page. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were darting anywhere but the bed.
"My lord," the page stammered. "The shipment from Volantis has arrived. They are requesting your signature for the inventory."
Harry groaned, then looked at Bellegere, who was still straddling him but now wore a businesslike smirk. Her tits were on full display, and her nipples were still as hard as rocks. She shook her chest and jiggled her tits at the page. The poor page whimpered and turned around, which only made her giggle. "Duty calls," she said, and rolled off of him, rising with the effortless grace of a cat.
Harry admired the way she moved as she slipped on a loose silk robe that matched the city's new colors. She padded over to the page and ruffled his hair as she passed, making the poor boy blush even harder.
"Give us a moment," Harry said. The page bowed and backed out of the room, nearly tripping over his own feet. Harry fought the urge to laugh.
Harry got up and pulled on his clothes. "Come with me," he said to Bellegere. "I want you to see this shipment. If it's half as good as they promised, we're going to need to redesign the entire western wing of the district."
She rolled her eyes but agreed. Bellegere pulled on a very revealing dress and followed Harry out of her room. There was never a dull moment with him, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
Chapter 86
Tywin Lannister stared out at the city with a stomach full of hate and a chest full of envy. The ship's prow, which was carved into the shape of a busty sea-witch, split the harbor foam with more grace than any ship he'd ever commanded. He could smell the salt in the air, but beneath it was the unsettling sweetness of lilac and orange blossoms. The scent drifted from the pale garden terraces bordering the city's docks. When he had left the docks of King's Landing, all he could smell was shit from the raw sewage being drained into Blackwater Bay. There was none of that here. Even the port was beautiful, which infuriated him more than he cared to admit.
Behind him, Cersei toyed with the pearl buttons on her fur-trimmed jacket. The damn thing clung to her like a second skin, and the white silk underneath was somehow even tighter. There was a slit in the skirt that ran from hip to heel, and when the first breeze caught it, it bared both legs … and damn near everything else. If she had had any sense of shame, it had been surgically removed by the bastard he called "grandson." Tywin ground his teeth and refused to look at her.
Instead, he looked at the city in front of him. Its white marble walls stretched high into the sky, every roof was beautifully tiled, and the gleaming white castle knifed upward in a collection of delicate turrets and domes. The thing had not existed five years ago, and now it looked as though it had been crowning the coast for centuries. It made the Red Keep look like an outhouse.
He'd been told stories of this place by his sycophantic cronies, and the stories were all lies. The city was not a den of depravity. It was a personal insult constructed in cream and gold. Every street that spilled down from the keep was lined with flowering trees and fluted columns, and even the gutters gleamed with cleanliness. There was not a beggar in sight, nor a crippled child, nor a dog with its ribs poking through. It was unnaturally beautiful, and Tywin hated it.
On the crossing, he had tried to enforce some kind of discipline among his traveling retinue. He'd failed. The guards drank and gambled on deck. The handmaidens spent hours painting their lips and practicing the crude, foreign dances that were all the rage in Essos. And Cersei … she paraded herself in front of them with her hair down and her neckline past her belly button. She dared Tywin to object, but the only thing he could do was sneer. No one respected him … not even his own treacherous men. Now, they were looking longingly at the city in front of them, no doubt realizing that he was the king of a rubbish pit.
They made landfall as the city bell chimed. Dockhands in matching uniforms guided the ship in with ropes of blue and gold. Tywin watched the men work. He thought it strange that they all looked so similar, but he quickly put it from his mind. He had more important things to worry about.
A crowd waited on the dock. Tywin recognized the so-called Dread Lord instantly. The boy had grown into a man since he had last set eyes on him. Harold stood at the center of his group, flanked by women who looked more like expensive courtesans than dignitaries. Each of them stood proud and confident, and each was dressed scantily enough to make a whore blush.
At Harold's right arm was a woman with hair redder than fresh blood. Her skin was pale and flawless, and her dress was so thin that Tywin could see everything underneath. Her nipples were as hard and bright as berries, and she wore a look of utmost authority. Melisandre, Tywin guessed. She was the one they called the Red Priestess … at least according to his spies. Beside her was a woman in an equally scandalous red dress. Her hair was dark and wavy, and her lovely face had an exotic quality to it. Tywin guessed that she was also a Red Priestess. On the other side was a woman with light brown skin and a gold circlet in her hair. Her dress was nearly as thin, but it covered a bit more, and her face was cool and unreadable. The third was a bit younger than the others, with hair like spun silver and a mouth that looked permanently amused. She wore nothing but a blue silk wrap that looked designed to fall off the moment anyone so much as breathed on it.
Behind them stood Myrcella, and Tywin's mood soured even further. She wore her hair unbound, and her dress was cut from the same pale silk as Cersei's, though with more skin exposed. Tywin wanted to turn away, but he could not. She was his last hope of restoring order to the family. Now she looked like a prop in some Essosi whorehouse. He said nothing. He would say nothing. The time for yelling had passed.
The gangplank was laid, and the dockworkers retreated in perfect silence. Tywin walked down first, making sure his boots landed on dry, unsoiled wood. It would not do to slip and make a fool of himself. The dock had been swept clean. There was not a speck of rubbish to be seen. He was keenly aware of every pair of eyes on him, and he returned their gaze with the cold, unblinking look that had broken dozens of lords.
At the base of the gangplank, Harold waited. The boy was taller than Tywin remembered. His shoulders had broadened, and his face was handsome and arrogant. His brilliant green eyes were confident, and his smile was more of a smirk. He wore a black tunic with gold piping and a white cloak that fell almost to the ground. His boots looked expensive. In fact, everything the welcoming party wore looked expensive.
"Lord Tywin," Harold said. His voice was somehow velvety soft and as hard as steel at the same time. "Welcome to Seven Swords."
Cersei came up beside Tywin, matching his stride. She did not bother to bow. Instead, she brushed the side of Harold's cheek with her lips, then did the same to the other. "You look healthy," she said, running her hands down his muscled biceps.
Harold's eyes flicked to her chest, then to her face. "It's the climate. You know that everything grows bigger here," he said, and they both smiled, as if sharing the same inside joke. Tywin did not care for this.
Tywin held his hand out. Harold took it, squeezed just a hair too hard, and let it go. There was an awkward beat. Tywin looked at the women standing behind his grandson and was not surprised when Harold began the introductions.
"You know our lovely Myrcella, of course," Harold said, gesturing to his left. "Beside her is the equally lovely Daenerys Targaryen."
The silver-haired girl nodded, and Tywin fought the urge to reach out and strangle the Targaryen whore. He already knew the girl was living in Harold's city, but seeing it firsthand made the rage bubble up. The girl was a direct threat to his kingdom's sovereignty. At any moment, she could decide that she is the rightful ruler of Westeros, and if she convinced Harold to help her, there was little Tywin could do about it. He would keep a close eye on her.
"And this is Melisandre, who has been an invaluable help to me." The Red Priestess inclined her head, and her eyes never left Tywin's face. "Kinvara, a dear friend and counselor." The other woman in the red dress bowed as well, her lips set in a sly half-smile. "And Missandei, who keeps my house in order and my days from ending in disaster."
Missandei smiled with professional politeness and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Tywin." Her voice was light but perfectly measured, as if she'd been trained in the art of not offending anyone.
"And you," Tywin replied, forcing a smile. His eyes lingered on the dress, which left nothing to the imagination. "You keep a unique household, Harold."
Harold shrugged. "We do things differently here. Tradition is not a chain in Seven Swords, and if people do not like it, they are free to leave."
Tywin suppressed the urge to laugh. He wasn't here to win an argument. He was here to make sure that his kingdom survived the winter.
He turned to Myrcella. "You look healthy, girl," he said, and was relieved when she only smiled and dipped her head. "Is this what passes for formal attire now?"
She looked down at her own dress, then moved her eyes back to him. Her eyes shined with a kind of delighted malice. "It is, Grandfather. All the women dress like this here. If you like, I can have the tailor make you something similar."
The entourage laughed, even Cersei. Tywin did not. Instead, he looked at the city that was waiting to devour him. The crowd on the dock was growing, and the faces at the back were already whispering and pointing.
Harold's eyes flicked upward. "You're just in time," he said, and pointed at the sky. Tywin looked up, and his worldview changed.
A dragon as big as a galley soared over the harbor on wings that gleamed like sheets of black iron. Its body was the color of storm clouds, and its scales glinted in the sun. It circled several times, casting a shadow over the dock and the city beyond. The crowd froze as one, and Tywin's mouth went dry. A second dragon followed. This one was milky white with streaks of gold along its flanks. They moved together, not as wild beasts, but as perfectly trained warhorses. The air thrummed with the sound of their massive, flapping wings.
"They're smaller than I expected," Tywin lied. His hands were trembling, but he made sure to keep them behind his back.
Harold grinned a knowing smile, and Tywin hated him for it. "They're young still. They will grow larger in time."
Myrcella spoke up, her voice cutting the air with excitement. "Sometimes, Harold lets us ride them."
"Not today," Harold said, turning his gaze to Tywin. "Today is for introductions. Will you join us at the palace?" Tywin nodded, because there was nothing else to do. Harry hid his smirk as he decided to take his grandfather the long way, through King's Garden.
The walk up to the castle was agony. The city was alive with music, laughter, and the ceaseless babble of foreign tongues. Every woman they passed was dressed like a courtesan. Every man was either a bodyguard, a wealthy merchant, or a half-crazed artist shouting about his wares. Tywin saw a woman painting a nude portrait of her own reflection in a shop window, and the men around her clapped in appreciation. He saw a fruit seller juggling oranges with her breasts out. He even saw a group of men carrying a scantily clad woman on a velvet palanquin, as if she were some goddess come to life. Harold had a good chuckle at that.
And every fifty steps, someone bowed to Harold. Some called him "Your Grace", and others called him "Your Majesty". Most just stared in awe.
Tywin counted seven statues of the Dread Lord in the first mile. Each was larger than the last, and each was more obscene in its artistry. The third statue showed Harold with a pair of naked women wrapped around him, one of whom looked suspiciously like Melisandre. Tywin tried not to look at the details.
The closer they got to the castle, the more Tywin noticed the inhuman perfection of it all. The streets were spotless. The flowers were blooming out of season. The air itself was warm and sweet, even in the dead of winter. He tried to find the rot, the poverty, and the places where the paint peeled. He found nothing.
The steps leading up to the castle were guarded by soldiers in matching black armor, and each was as tall as a Lannister and twice as broad. They stood at attention, and none of them so much as blinked as Tywin and his party passed.
The doors to the keep were thrown open. Inside, the floors were polished marble, and the walls were hung with tapestries depicting Harold's successful conquests. One was a tapestry of his family tree. Tywin saw his own likeness rendered in gold thread, standing to the side of a much larger image of Harold. He felt sick.
They walked into the reception hall. Cersei, Myrcella, and the Targaryen whore slipped away, arm in arm, and Tywin caught a glimpse of them chatting and giggling as they climbed the steps. Harold led the way to a table set for twenty, piled high with roast meats, sweets, and fruit from every corner of the world.
Tywin sat, hands folded, and waited. Melisandre sat to his left, close enough that her bare thigh touched his leg. Kinvara sat to his right, cool and unreadable. Missandei poured wine for everyone, and her breasts swayed under the thin silk.
Harold ate first, tearing a bite from a leg of lamb and washing it down with dark wine. Only when he had taken his fill did anyone else move. The women ate like wolves, but with the grace of nobility. Tywin nibbled at a bit of bread, trying to keep his rage in check.
"Do you like the city?" Melisandre asked, and there was no malice in her tone.
"It is … orderly," Tywin admitted.
Kinvara smiled. "That is the highest compliment you could give."
Tywin said nothing. He was outnumbered and outgunned. He would say nothing and do nothing, not until he found the weakness in this perfect place. There was always a weakness. He only had to wait for it to reveal itself.
He glanced at Harold. The boy was laughing at something Missandei had said. He looked happy and untouchable. Tywin closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the Iron Throne and King's Landing as a whole. Compared to Seven Swords, his city was a pus-filled sore. He wondered if he'd ever see it again. After spending some time here, he wondered if he would even want to.
Then he opened his eyes, drank his wine, and waited.
The Dread Lord of Essos
After getting his guest settled, Harry needed to handle another guest. He closed his eyes and looked through the eyes of his clone in Highgarden. He smiled deviously, and his eyes glistened with mischief. He faded away from his room and replaced his clone in Lady Margaery's personal chambers.
Margaery Tyrell sat at her mirrored vanity with one leg crossed over the other. Her entire naked body was on full display. She drew a silver brush through her shining brown hair in long, delicate strokes. The morning light made her skin look soft and pink, and her tits, which were round, perky, and capped by stiff, pink nipples, rose and fell with every deep, self-satisfied breath. There was an ease in her posture. She'd been blessed with an incredibly attractive body, and she knew it. The faint smile on her lips told Harry that she enjoyed being looked at.
He was, of course, already looking. He lay sprawled on the bed, completely nude and slightly lazy with morning contentment. His half-hard cock rested along one thigh, and his hands were folded behind his head. But the longer he watched her, the more he wanted her. He rolled off the bed and padded over to her. Margaery saw him in the mirror and smirked, but kept brushing her hair.
He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then let his lips drift down to her ear. She shivered at the warmth of his breath and the weight of his hands as they came to rest on her bare shoulders. Margaery's eyes closed for just a second, and she let herself enjoy the pressure of his fingers. He kissed the crown of her head again, then let his lips trace a slow, teasing path along her jaw to her neck. She gave a pleased little hum.
Without thinking, Harry slid his palms down to cup both of her tits. They fit perfectly in his hands, and he kneaded them gently, pressing his thumbs over the hard, pink nipples. Margaery giggled out a warm, breathy sound, and she arched her back and thrust her tits harder into his hands.
"If you want me to stop, you'd better run," Harry said, nipping the lobe of her ear.
She tilted her head back, exposing the long, pale line of her throat. "If I wanted you to stop, I would use the dagger in the top drawer."
He laughed and bent down, kissing her mouth from above. Her lips were softer than silk, and when she parted them, he pushed his tongue in and tasted her. She reached up and held his jaw, keeping him close. Her eyes were half-lidded with desire.
He squeezed her tits harder and rolled the nipples between his fingers. Margaery broke the kiss and shivered, her eyes bright with delight. Harry bent and kissed her tits, taking each nipple into his mouth in turn and swirling his tongue around it until it was wet and shining. Her back arched, and she let out a little moan as Harry gently nipped her crinkled tip.
He picked her up and held her by her round ass, and she squealed but wrapped her legs around his hips. She nipped at his neck and tried to wriggle free, but he carried her to the bed and set her down with a soft thump. She bounced, and her tits jiggled. She then sprawled out, showing off her lean stomach and perfectly smooth mound. Her pussy was already damp, and she let her thighs fall open as she reclined.
Harry joined her on the mattress, but before he could settle in, Margaery swung one leg over his lap and straddled him. She pressed her bald, dewy slit against his cock and mashed it flat to his belly. She rocked her hips in slow circles, smearing her wetness up and down the length of him. Her wet inner lips easily glided over the skin.
He put his hands on her thighs, squeezed them, then dragged his fingers up to her hips. She ground her clit against his cock and let out a breathy moan that made him even harder. Margaery looked down at his face, and her eyes shined with need.
"I can see why all the girls in Highgarden are obsessed with you," she teased, leaning down to rub her tits across his chest. "Is it true that one of them lifted her dress and showed her whore cunt to you?"
"Two of them, actually," Harry said, and grinned. He reached up and cupped her face, then pulled her down for a kiss. Their tongues tangled, and she moaned against his lips.
She sat up, rolled her hips, and squeezed his cock between her thighs. "That doesn't surprise me. Highgarden is filled with backstabbers and cutthroats," she said, her voice thick with desire.
He pulled her close and buried his face in her tits. He nipped at the soft flesh and sucked each nipple into his mouth. She gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders. Her hips didn't stop moving. They rolled and rocked, and the sensation of her slippery lips dragging over his cock drove him wild.
He reached down, grabbed her ass, and kneaded her soft flesh. Harry then slid his hands up her bare back. She shivered under his touch and let him do whatever he wanted. There was a point of pride in her surrender, as if giving herself to him was an honor that only the worthy could receive.
She slowed her grinding and let his cock rest between her legs, pinned tight to his belly by her pussy lips. She hovered there, teasing both of them, and looked down at him through long, dark lashes. Her breathing was fast, and her face was flushed.
He reached up and brushed a thumb over her jaw. "A boat will arrive tomorrow to take us down the Mander," he told her, his voice low and a bit rough. "Have you and Lady Alerie packed?"
She snorted. "Everything is packed. We could leave today if you want." Her hips rolled, and she pressed her swollen clit to the head of his cock. She started to rub harder, and her face twisted with pleasure.
"Impatient," he said, grinning.
She nodded. "I always am."
He grabbed her waist, rolled her onto her back, and settled between her legs. She opened herself for him, spreading her thighs as wide as they would go. Her pussy glistened, and her lips were puffy and pink. He could see how wet she was.
He lined himself up and, with a single, slow push, he slid the head of his cock into her. She gasped, arched her back, and clutched at his shoulders. He buried himself deep, and the hot, slick pressure of her cunt was almost too much to handle. He leaned over and kissed her as he started to fuck her slowly and steadily.
She moaned into his mouth, her hands clawed at his back, and her legs wrapped around his waist. Her heels dug into his ass, pulling him in as deep as possible. She was tight, and her pussy clenched around his shaft with every thrust.
He broke the kiss and looked down at her. She was beautiful. Her eyes were glazed with pleasure, and her tits were bouncing in time with his thrusts. Sweat slicked her skin, and the flush of arousal made her look almost feverish.
Her pussy fluttered around him, squeezing and milking his cock. She was soaking wet, and each time he pushed into her, a perverse wet noise filled the room.
"Harold," she gasped, and her hands gripped his hair. "Don't pull out. I want you to spill your seed inside of me."
He kept fucking her, and the pleasure built with every stroke. He could feel her clenching and fluttering, and then she came. Her whole body tensed, and her pussy spasmed around his cock. She screamed loud enough that everyone close to her room heard it, and he fucked her through it, not stopping until he came himself. He emptied inside her, filling her with hot, thick spurts, and the sensation made her shudder and moan all over again.
He collapsed on top of her, both of them gasping for breath. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him softly, and then buried her face in his shoulder. When their breathing slowed, she leaned in and started peppering his skin with soft kisses. "I'm really looking forward to seeing your city again. It's been too long."
He smiled, kissed her hair, and said, "It'll be an event to remember. I promise you that." She giggled, curled up against him while Harry lovingly played with her soft, sexy body.
Awaiting more chapter on patreon - dasteiza