Prince Daemon Targaryen, with his crescent‑silver hair, bright purple eyes, and youthful, handsome features, made his way towards the Silk Street.
After three months of intense training, he needs some revitalization.
Silk Street was the famed brothel district of King's Landing.
Here, one could find pleasure slaves from Qarth, skilled in all the arts of spring songs; failed courtesans from Bravos; priestesses of desire from the Summer Isles; and beauties from Lys with silver hair and purple eyes who claimed they are descent from Old Valyria.
Taking a deep breath Daemon entered the Red Rose brothel in Silk Street.
Reality is that he was a college student from Earth, luckily arrived in this world four or five months ago, finally merged the souls of two different worlds.
From then on, he was Daemon, and Daemon was him.
Its even little confusing for him also, after all he felt Daemon desire and like to act wild like daemon has familiar bond for family of daemon but also has youthful excitement, timid, knowledge from another world and little schemer from the person from earth.
The dim glow of scented tallow candles flickered across walls draped in worn Myrish lace. Daemon remembered this place like the palm of his hand. Soon, a girl from Naath pleased his eyes.
The tilt of the serving girl's hip aroused him, but the other side of him was torn by conflict. He had been a virgin before he died. Now, merging his soul with a womanizer created a strange sense of conflict.
"Isn't Naath the island of peace, well more like natives are peacefull? That means she's a slave," Daemon thought. But immediately he scoffed a displeasure, perhaps it's from the original body. He went to the girl and kissed her.
You're not supposed to enjoy this, the modern thought clashed. These aren't courtesans. They're slaves. Yet even as the thought surfaced, Daemon's lips curved into that familiar, dangerous half-smile. He reached for a cup of wine from a passing tray, the crimson liquid catching the light like it was promised to him 3000 years ago.
He hadn't come here to save anyone. He'd come to forget the outrageous three months of training with the idea from the modern world to strengthen oneself and build one body.
Although he was pretty sure the soul from another world would never have been able to organize himself like that.
"So i am Daemon. or the other one, maybe both."
The kiss was good. The girl darker-skinned, with deep brown eyes that held no resistance she did not pull her lips away. She was trained not to.
But Daemon was skilled, he move with the arrogance of a dragon, as he skillfully embraced her with his well-developed arms, the fruit of his three months of brutal practice.
Then he broke the kiss and looked at her properly. The hollow of her cheek. The quick flash of her tongue as she breathed. Daemon smiled sharp and dangerously.
"Interesting," he murmured, his voice low. "It seems my tests for woman also effected."
Without another word, he lifted her into his arms and moved toward the curtained room at the back.
The other girls surrounding them laughed with a teasing, knowing chorus. One called out, her voice dripping with mock scandal: "It seems our prince became a little rougher."
Another giggled, fanning herself with a silk scarf. Daemon did not look back.
The curtain fell. And soon, the only sounds were the soft creak of the bed and the muffled gasps that stretched well past midnight.
When dawn came, pale and grey through the slats of the window, the sensation had turned dull, hollowed out by repetition. He woke slowly, his silver hair tangled against the pillow, the Naathi girl already gone.
For a long moment, he stared at the empty space beside him. Then a name surfaced from the depths of his fractured memory "Gael should be 15..." he thought.
Suddenly a commotion disrupt his thought,
....
Where's the madam? I want to sell this little whore, she like to go into Crept of house. Untouched. Just three gold dragons." A man shouting to showcase the whole people on street.
Disgusted
The girl kept weeping. 'Father, I am sorry , I will be good, father please forgive me! Father no! I don't want to be a whore.'
The drunkard punched the girl in the face, instantly bruising it. 'Little whore, who gave you the right to choose anymore?'
He shoved the girl to the floor and raised his fist again but stopped hearing a taunting voice.
"If you beat her to near death, I think you will not even get 1 gold dragon let alone 3." Daemon taunted.
In this world, smallfolk like them don't have rights, indeed. But among common folk, those treated even lesser than nobles treat smallfolk are women and old people.
And people who raise a daughter are kind, more so, especially in Flea Bottom. Raising a daughter here means one not only has to save her from other people but also face scrutiny from society, people's gaze and lust—and also be attacked by public scrutiny over why the girl isn't married yet after she starts her red moons.
Daemon indeed understood this. Thus, he was kind. Looking at the father, and the girl dragged into this, she may had her own fault too. But it still didn't feel right when someone woke you from your sleep. And as a half-modern man, he couldn't just watch domestic violence.
Looking at the man, Daemon thought he looked familiar but couldn't pinpoint it.
"Who the hell are you?" the drunkard snarled. "This is my daughter. I can hit her if I like. I beat her mother to death with my fists. I'd do the same to this whore's seed, too."
He shoved the girl to the floor and raised his fist again, only to find his wrist seized in a vice-like grip. A man in leather clothes, slightly scrubby-bearded, stopped him.
"Don't be hard on yourself," he spoke. "This isn't Flea Bottom."
"You—" the old man started, but stopped his mouth. He may not know the white-haired bastard, but he knew this man, one of the City Watch's people, bastards. Never fought with the Skullray gang or the Thieves' Guild, only played at being good on the Silk Street.
The old man scoffed and wanted to shout for the madam a second time, but immediately a single sentence stopped him.
"Two gold dragons. One is deducted for the treatment—or get the fuck out of here." Daemon said calmly.
He'd already asked for his sword from the kind courtesan. With its white intricate pattern and silver hilt, one could immediately tell it was expensive. It wasn't Dark Sister, but it was his favorite sword currently.
Looking at the public, now that even the City Watch was involved the old man thought of retreating. Even drunk, he wasn't foolish enough to get himself killed. You didn't live this long in Flea Bottom without this kind of cowardice.
The old man nodded as if it were business. Daemon threw two gold dragons toward him.
The drunkard glared at Prince Daemon with a provocative look. After all, the man in front of him wore only a silk sheet to cover his lower parts, Noble cunts are all whoremongers, the old man thought, then scoffed. So maybe he's noble. Still can't control his prick. What's he got that I don't? A drunk flea-bottom bastard like me?
The old man scoffed, but at last, looking at the girl crying in the dirt road of the Silk Street, he walked away. Horse-shit smell filled his nostrils, but this was a thousand times greater than Flea Bottom.