The Dread Lord of Essos (Ch. 93)

( Every character in this story is a legal adult over the age of 18 )

The Dread Lord of Essos

Chapter 93

The Pleasure District was ready to open, and half the Realm’s worth of Westerosi nobility had already crowded into the King’s Garden. The square had been transformed in the days leading up to the event, with harlequins, minstrels, and acrobats performing on every corner. Courtesans of both sexes mingled with the lords and ladies, trying to form connections that they could use later. At the heart of it all, standing atop a dais with a banner of cream and gold streaming behind him, was Harry. He wore a black doublet with gold embroidery, and his smile dazzled as he raised a goblet high and addressed the waiting crowd.

“Lords and ladies of Westeros … My fellow Essosi, I welcome you to the future,” he said, projecting his voice so that even the lecherous old men in the back could hear. “Some of you traveled weeks from your homes for this moment, and I promise you’ll remember it for the rest of your lives. What you see around you is only the beginning. In this district, desire is not a sin but a celebration. We are here to show the world what it means to live with joy, not shame.”

The applause thundered, and some of the lords whistled, with more than a few risqué shouts from the assembled Goldcloaks and wandering brothel workers. However, there were a few Westerosi lords and ladies who had sour looks on their grizzled old faces. Tywin stood in the front row, looking like he had just swallowed something foul. Harry knew these party poopers didn’t actually dislike the Pleasure District. They just thought that it was improper to have it out in the open. Many of these same people brought whores into their chambers practically every night … Tywin included. 

Cersei gleamed in her artfully-constructed dress of cream silk and gold. She stood at Harry’s right elbow. Two narrow straps descended from her shoulders and covered each breast, leaving the entirety of her inner breasts and her stomach bare for all to see. Her breasts were provocatively framed, drawing many male eyes to them, and her skin glowed with a sheen of scented oil. The skirt of the dress looked more like a loincloth. It was slit up both sides to her hips. Cersei clung to Harry’s arm with performative affection. Her eyes were fixed on the crowd, as if daring anyone to look away from her stunning sexiness. 

On Harry’s left stood Myrcella, who wore a gown of lilac silk that was so thin that everyone could see her nipples through it. The neckline plunged to her midriff, and the fabric clung to her curves. Her inner breasts were on full display, as was the full length of her pale, sexy legs. Many lecherous eyes feasted on her beauty. Unlike Cersei, Myrcella seemed genuinely delighted by the whole affair. She greeted the assembled lords with the easy grace of a seasoned hostess. She had more suitors vying for her attention than any one else there, and she accepted their flirtations with a smile, even though she had no intention of leaving Harry’s city … or his bed. 

The other women of the court were arrayed in a semicircle around the dais, and all of them were dressed to scandalize. Margaery Tyrell was always eager to set a new trend, and she wore a gown of green velvet with so many cutouts that it looked like a vine had grown around her and failed to cover most of her gorgeous body. Sansa was looking at Harry longingly, wishing she could be the one on his arm. Her signature auburn hair was twisted into an elegant crown on the top of her head. Her dress was ridiculously thin and showed off every curve. Most of her perky cleavage was showing, and the pleasantly cool air stiffened her nipples. Everyone in attendance could see they were rock hard. Even Arya had allowed herself to be dressed up in a scandalously tiny dress, though she looked ready to punch the first lord who tried to grab her ass. 

It was a sea of nobility and depravity, and Harry could not help but enjoy every second of it. He raised his goblet once more, this time in salute to the women. “Tonight, we honor the beauty and strength of our women. May we never again doubt what their hearts … and their bodies can do.”

The crowd applauded, and more than one man shouted out, “Here, here!”

Cersei pressed her body against Harry’s side and drew his ear down to her lips. “Do you think they realize how much of this is for your own amusement?” she purred. “Or are they all fools?”

“You know as well as I do that most of them are complete idiots. They’re sheep, and I will shepherd their gold straight into my coffers,” he muttered back, and Cersei laughed in genuine amusement. 

Myrcella caught the exchange and rolled her eyes. She then turned her attention to the crowd. “I think it’s marvelous,” she said. “No one has ever dared host an event like this. Grandfather would have dropped dead before letting it happen.” Indeed, Tywin was practically sneering as he looked over the scantily dressed women of Westeros. It wasn’t just his women who were dressed like this. Several other Westerosi ladies had dared to dabble with the fashion trends of his city. 

“And yet, he will say nothing to me about it. He understands who wields the sword that’s hanging precariously over his head,” Harry replied, and the two women shared a brief, knowing smile.

Behind the stage, a clutch of Goldcloaks ringed the square, doing their best to appear dignified in the midst of bare breasts and painted whores. It was clear that each of them was eager to join the festivities. Tywin lurked at the edge of the assembly with his own retinue of sycophants and flatterers. He glared daggers at Harry and the women around him, but no one seemed the least bit concerned. It was clear who the crowd favored, and it wasn’t the supposed king of Westeros.

The ceremony continued with speeches and dedications, but Harry’s eyes kept straying to one of his guests of honor, who had arrived late and with a deliberate lack of subtlety. Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, cut through the throng with her handmaid trailing respectfully behind. Where the northern girls gave only a suggestion of what lay beneath their dresses, Arianne proudly displayed it. Her dress was a simple crimson shift, slit from hip to hip and cinched loosely with a cord of gold. Her breasts were unbound, and her hard nipples were decorated with golden nipple rings that clutched tightly to the crinkled tips. Her olive skin practically gleamed in the light. She wore her hair in thick, perfumed ringlets, and every man in the crowd turned to stare as she passed.

Arianne paused at the foot of the stage, and her mouth curved into a sly smile. She dipped in a shallow curtsy, which made her bare tits jiggle. “My apologies for the late arrival,” she said in a smoky purr. “But it was difficult getting into this dress.”

Harry grinned down at her and extended his hand, helping her up onto the stage. “If you need help getting out of the dress, I’d be more than happy to lend a hand,” he teased.

Arianne laughed pleasantly, and the drunken lords and wealthy merchants in the crowd roared with laughter. “Yes, I have seen firsthand how skillful you are at getting women out of their dresses.” She slipped in between Myrcella and Dany, who was stunning the crowd with her own curve-hugging dress. She gave their arms an affectionate squeeze. She then sized up Cersei with a knowing glance.

Harry drained his goblet and raised it overhead, signaling the end of his speech and the beginning of the true festivities. He turned slightly, nodding at a cluster of minstrels, and with a flourish, he declared, “Let the Pleasure District be open!” His words echoed across the square, and the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers and whistles. The sound was nearly drowned out by a sudden barrage of deafening booms. Fireworks burst across the night sky, scattering sparks of scarlet, gold, and icy blue light. The spectacle was met with utter delight, but it wasn’t the only show in store for the revelers.

A split second later, the crowd’s faces tipped upward as two shadows crossed the moon. Harry’s white and black dragons dove in tandem above the festival. They swooped low over the grand avenue, and their massive wings scooped out the air and sent tablecloths and hats tumbling. The dragons unleashed torrents of flame, painting the sky with ribbons of orange and blue that lingered eerily as the fireworks continued to pop and spark. The spectacle was carefully orchestrated and completely overwhelming, and not a single guest could look away.

As the dragons banked away, the assembled nobility and their followers surged forward as if released from a spell. Men and women in silks and velvets stampeded through the white marble arch of the Pleasure District, each determined to be the first to taste what was on offer. This area of King’s Garden had been transformed into a labyrinth of delights, with every alley and arcade teeming with entertainment. Jesters spun hoops of fire and danced on stilts. Knife throwers and acrobats jostled for attention along the central promenade. However, they were little more than garnish to the true feast.

Within moments, the crowd was swept up in a tide of courtesans, dancers, and whores. They came in every imaginable shape and style, from delicate Lyseni women with painted lips to sumptuous Summer Island girls whose breasts barely fit in their diamond mesh halters. There were Dornishmen with oiled muscles, and Westerosi blondes with hair as fine and shiny as spun glass. Some of the pleasure workers wore nothing but lacquered masks. They prowled the avenue in pairs or small packs, hunting for the richest and most desperate customers. Every ten paces, a new spectacle of debauchery revealed itself. A maiden of the Reach was already being plied with kisses by a strapping man in a silken loincloth. A Greyjoy lordling with a missing hand was being delightfully harassed by three of the city’s most notorious harlots.

A sense of joyful chaos reigned. Wine flowed from the fountains, and every table was stacked with delicacies. Honey-glazed quail, sweetmeats, and oysters pried fresh from their shells and laced with spices made everyone’s mouths water. The air was thick with incense, food, and the perfume of sex.

Amid all this, Harry made his entrance. He led his retinue through the gates like a conquering hero, flanked by Cersei, Myrcella, Dany, Arianne, Melisandre, Missandei, Kinvara, the three Stark women, and Margaery. The group of scantily clad women instantly became the focus of every eye. Cersei’s dress was scandalous enough to silence a street. Myrcella smiled at all who caught her eye. She was the embodiment of both innocence and wickedness. Arianne was the only one who could outshine them. Her crimson dress was almost translucent in the lantern light, and her golden nipple rings glinted with each step.

Harry and the women walked arm-in-arm, and wherever they passed, the crowd parted like a curtain. Some bowed or curtsied, and others merely gaped. The women set the pace, and Harry was content to let them lead. They stopped at a platform where nine of the city’s most beautiful men and women posed naked. Each one was painted with the colors of a different noble house. Cersei tossed a coin to the Tyrell-colored young man and whispered something in his ear, sending him running back to his employer with a blush that showed even through the green paint. Myrcella giggled and accepted a sugared fig from one of the many servants carrying around trays filled with treats and wine. Arianne surveyed the offerings with a cool, appraising glance, as if she were choosing horses at a fair.

They moved on, sampling the entertainments as they went. At the next awning, a band of Ironborn was challenging the crowd to drink against them. At every turn, the crowd grew bolder. By the time they reached the second plaza, most of the more conventional women in attendance had already abandoned their shawls, and at least a third of the men had undone their doublets. The games became spicier. Harry chuckled as a muscle-bound man with a raging erection loudly declared that anyone who could toss a ring onto his penis would win a prize. Many a blushing lass tried and failed. 

Harry watched it all unfold with satisfaction. The Pleasure District was a success, and he knew it would be the talk of the Realm for years. But what pleased him most was how effortlessly his women commanded the night. When Cersei whispered a command, even the most notorious courtesans snapped to attention. When Myrcella flashed a smile, hardened sellswords blushed and stammered, and when Arianne sighed and leaned into his arm, Harry felt the envy of every lord in the city.

The Pleasure District was already a cacophony of color and sound, and Harry’s procession had set the tone for the night’s excesses. The crowd surged after them, eager to follow wherever the party would lead.

The Dread Lord of Essos

Tywin Lannister watched the Pleasure District’s inauguration with a stony expression. Every muscle of his face was locked in a sneer that suggested contempt for the entire proceedings. His eyebrows formed a furious line above his cold green eyes. To the casual observer, he was the unyielding warden he’d always been. They saw him as a man beyond temptation or shame … the very face of Westerosi dignity. Inside, however, Tywin’s emotions bubbled like a boiling stew. He told himself, and would have told anyone with the gall to ask, that he found the spectacle disdainful. The scant dresses, the bare legs and painted nipples, and the rivers of wine and wanton moaning were all beneath him. He thought them vulgar, and an affront to tradition and proper order. But the truth, which Tywin would admit to no one, was that he was jealous. Not of the flesh, or the pleasures of the flesh. He had not been a thrall to his appetites even in youth. Joanna had been his one great weakness, and even her memory could not move him now. No, what Tywin envied was power. The effortless, absolute command with which his grandson Harold orchestrated all of this was amazing to witness. Tywin could not deny it. Harold had come to Essos a bastard. Now he held a whole continent by the throat, and the world danced to whatever tune he played.

He watched as Harold moved through the crowd with his retinue of beauties fanned out around him like the petals of a flower. Tywin saw Cersei preening at Harry’s side with her hand placed possessively on his bicep. Her hair fell over her back and shoulders in spirals of shimmering gold. Close behind, Myrcella stepped in time with them. Her features were softer, and her smile was more open, but her eyes held the same ruthless glint as Cersei’s. There was Arianne Martell with her whorish breasts bared and adorned with jewelry. The Princess of Dorne had obviously never learned to be ashamed of her appetites or her ambitions. He expected nothing less from a Dornish savage. And trailing after them was Daenerys Targaryen, the silver haired beauty in a dress made of silk and diamonds. The rest of Harold’s whores weren’t any better. Tywin saw how the crowd fell silent at their approach, how every man and woman turned to watch, and how, even among the chaos and decadence, Harold was at the center of it all. The boy did not walk so much as glide, as if the world had decided to tilt its surface in his favor.

By contrast, Tywin’s own table was a pit of wrinkled faces and sagging necks. He was surrounded by the men who once called themselves the Lords Paramount of Westeros, but who now looked more like scarecrows propped up in borrowed silks. Lord Redwyne’s jowls quivered as he drank pink wine, and old Royce stared wantonly at the display of debauchery before him. Even Kevan, Tywin’s own brother, had started to go soft. His doublet barely fit, and his belly pressed against the fabric like dough left too long in the sun. These men had once ruled a kingdom. They had once trembled at Tywin’s voice. Now they leaned close to each other, speaking in wheezing whispers as they pretended to ignore the parade of naked flesh and the shouts of laughter coming from the other side of the square.

Tywin wanted to spit in their faces. He wanted to grab a sword and remind the world what a real king looked like. He wanted to scream at Harold, or better yet, cut the boy down with one swift, perfect stroke. He had dreamed of it, more than once. He imagined Harold on his knees, gasping for air with blood running in rivers over his precious city. But Tywin had not been born a fool. He knew what the world was now. King’s Landing was a latrine. It was a stinking pile of filth and rabble that only continued to exist because Harold allowed it. The Lannister name, which had once been the envy of every highborn house, had been reduced to a footnote in Essosi ledgers. He was king of nothing. His subjects owed him their loyalty only because Harold’s gold and grain delivered them from starvation. He could see it in their eyes. He understood the silent accusations and the never-spoken truth that Tywin had failed, and Harold had won. And so he sat, watched, and clenched his chalice in his bony fingers until the veins stood out like ropes.

While stewing in his anger, Tywin wondered if any of his ancestors had ever suffered such humiliation. He remembered his weak-willed father, Lord Tytos, who had let the family fortunes slip away and become the laughingstock of the realm. Tywin had spent his whole life restoring the Lannister name. He rebuilt it brick by brick out of his own rage and ruthless determination. He deserved to rule, and he had … until Harold had somehow outmaneuvered him. It was impossible, and yet here it was. The pleasure district was filled with banners. None of them were Lannister crimson and gold. Instead, the cream and gold of Harold’s own bastard house fluttered in the soft, pleasant sea breeze. Even the feast's food bore the mark of foreign hands. The cheeses were from Tyrosh, the olives from Volantis, and the fruits were from Harold’s own massive orchards. The proud harvests of the Westerlands were nowhere in sight.

Harold’s laughter rang out across the square, and Tywin felt a wave of revulsion. He despised the way his grandson enjoyed his power, as if he could afford to spend it so carelessly. Tywin had always viewed power as something to be hoarded and guarded. You spent it only when you must, and even then, you made someone else pay the price. Harold burned through power like wildfire, as if he knew it would never run dry. The dragons overhead seemingly proved him right. 

The worst of it was how everyone else seemed to have accepted this new order. Even Cersei seemed content to play the part of chief courtesan in his court. She smiled at the scandalized faces and laughed at the dirty jokes, and Tywin could see something in her that he didn’t recognize. It was a kind of peace, perhaps. The men at Tywin’s own table were no better. They snickered at the antics of the entertainers and exchanged crude speculation about the whores on display, but all of it was a performance. It was a last-ditch attempt to pretend they mattered. Deep down, they knew they were finished. There would be no more wars, no more plots, and no more grand maneuvers across the gameboard of kingdoms. This was the end of their line, and they seemed content to let it go. 

A girl passed by their table with nothing on but a painted mask and a chain of pearls. Her skin was flawless, and her hips were wide and inviting. Lord Redwyne clumsily reached for her, and she laughed and danced away to the next table. The old man’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Tywin felt nothing for him. Let the old goat stew in his shame. He deserved it. He scanned the crowd, looking for any hint of loyalty among the Westerosi present. He found nothing. Every one of them was for sale, and Harold had bought them all.

He turned his eyes back to the stage, where Harold and his women had stopped to watch a fire-eater. The man was an enormous Summer Islander with skin the color of polished bronze. He held the crowd’s rapt attention as he drank a stream of flaming oil and then spat it skyward in a column of orange fire. The crowd thundered their approval, and even the highborn women at the front screamed and clapped. Tywin focused on Harold’s face, searching for some sign of weakness or hint of uncertainty. There was none. The boy was utterly at ease. When the fire-eater bowed low, and Harold tossed him a gold coin, Tywin saw the man’s gratitude. It was the gratitude of a freedman to his liberator, not the servility of a subject to his king. This, too, infuriated Tywin. He had always believed that effective rule required discipline, hierarchy, and the constant threat of punishment. Harold seemed to have discovered a different method, one that Tywin instinctively distrusted and loathed.

The corners of Tywin’s mouth twitched. He could imagine what his ancestors would say if they saw him now, sitting on a borrowed throne, watching whores and jugglers cavort while his enemies drank his wine and laughed at his expense. He forced his mind back to the present, unwilling to indulge in the luxury of regret. There was still a chance, he thought. A sliver of opportunity remained. All of this was his grandson’s way of keeping his followers content and distracted. But pleasure was a weak kind of glue, and it would not hold. When it all fell apart, Tywin would be there to sweep up the pieces and put them back together. He would be king of the pride once again. However, time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. ‘Perhaps I need to take matters into my own hands,’ Tywin thought with a devious smirk.