Gyselle

"Oh yes, that's it, Young Dragon! Give me your seed!"

Brownsmile moaned as he thrust faster, staring wide-eyed at Gyselle. She looked back at him, making sure to pant at his pace. It had been one of the first lessons she'd learned from Hulla about whore's work. Never act like you're enjoying it more than them, because then they see through the trick.

Truthfully, it was taking her best efforts to keep up the mummer's farce. Thankfully, Brownsmile - as she would forever know him - did his best to make her job easier. For one thing, he did not want to be known by his own name, so she did not need to remember it. He wanted them to play roles, which meant that she could charge him extra. And so, he was the shining king who had conquered Dorne, and she was the ruling Princess of Dorne, forced to submit to his prowess.

It was an easy role for Gyselle to play; she had only met a few Dornish in her life, and she had only a passing imitation of their accents, but none of these fools were old enough to have fought in the Dornish Conquest anyway. They were more interested in her dusky skin and her black curly hair. Brownsmile had decided that she looked Dornish, and so she embodied that role.

Roleplaying was a luxury afforded to prostitutes who were well-established in respectable brothels; they could arrange for costumes to be designed, depending on the customers' request, and they could thus charge their rich customers more for an elaborate performance. Gyselle had to make do with an orange dress which she'd stolen from a bawdy house in Bitterbridge. It did not fit her, and it was coming apart at the seams, but Brownsmile did not seem to mind; if anything, he seemed more aroused by the idea of a princess who appeared humbled and disgraced. He's probably spent his whole life being sneered at by noblewomen.

Another way in which Brownsmile made Gyselle's job easier was his lack of patience and stamina. She had expected that there would be some sort of scenario that he would want to play out, as if they were both on stage for his amusement. But instead, she had made some scathing comments about defying the Targaryens, then she had allowed him to seize her, make a blustering declaration, lift up her dress, and push himself roughly inside her, thrusting while she pretended to be resistant at first, but eventually tamed by his mediocre manhood.

He did not last long after that. Truthfully, she'd had to bite back laughter as she thought of all the ways she could cut his pride apart with taunts, as if her words were made of Valyrian steel. But she dared not inflame him when they were alone together. Men could easily claim that she'd tried to steal their purses in order to justify a beating, or even a murder. Sometimes an explanation would not even be needed, if the man was rich and powerful enough. Even this Brownsmile, this lowly toll guard for House Strickland, could easily kill her and walk away without so much as a tut-tut from Ser Mortimer Oldflowers.

Thankfully, this Brownsmile's crudeness was simple and mostly harmless; he paid her duly for her time. He even remarked that she'd been the best he'd yet had, at which Gyselle was careful to feign a blush and murmur her thanks.

He isn't so bad, Gyselle thought resentfully as she put away his coins. She almost wished that he'd proved more worthy of her hatred, for then at least she might take the time to actually enact some sort of vengeance. But the truth was that he was just an ordinary man, one of dozens that had visited her so far since they'd set up shop.

They hadn't meant to stay; the plan had been to go to King's Landing. But the brothel in which they worked was far more lucrative than either Hulla or Gyselle might have expected. It didn't hurt that Hulla was clearly an Ironborn woman, whilst Gyselle appeared foreign to most men of the Reach.

She had played Dornishwoman for these men, who wished to be the Young Dragon, or the Dragonknight, or the Black Dragon, or some other hero of theirs. Sometimes she played an Essossi who was liberated from slavery, or she was an Essossi who was put into slavery and discovered that she enjoyed it. So long as they paid Gyselle's prices, she would accommodate their desires.

Sometimes she and Hulla worked together to bring these fantasies alive. Men would jump at the chance to have two women at once, even if they could barely manage with one on a good day. Other times, the men were exactly as able as their appetites demanded. One of Lord Strickland's household knights had managed to discharge himself three times in one session before he was satisfied; he had been their most lucrative client thus far.

Gyselle often found it tedious to play roles for men, but acting alongside Hulla was far less embarrassing than if she was expected to carry that burden alone. Hulla had talked about her time spent with acting troupes in her younger years, and she retained a great love for performing. Thus, her defiant Ironborn warrior woman was a sneering, scornful, fierce figure who either dominated the man whose cock was inside her, demanding that he take her, or else she found herself unable to resist the waves of pleasure which made her see the sense in a woman's role beneath a man's foot. Her costumes were no better than Gyselle's but her conviction, or so Gyselle felt, was far superior to hers.

After Brownsmile left, Gyselle went to find Hulla. She had finished earlier than Gyselle, and she had promised that she would provide her with moon tea and a bath. Gyselle might have been more enthusiastic about both if the bath was not so cold and the moon tea was not so bitter. But both, Hulla claimed, were necessary.

Hulla had gone out of her way to purchase lye, along with oil. These she mixed together into the bath, giving it a pungent smell. Gyselle's nose wrinkled with disgust, but she immersed herself in the cold water, albeit with a loud curse at Hulla.

The Ironborn woman smirked, "Leave my mother out of this. She was content to have us bathe in seawater." She handed Gyselle a small cup to drink from whilst she sat, shivering. "This should warm you up."

"Unless it's rum, I doubt it," Gyselle snapped bad-temperedly as she sipped the concoction.

Hulla's amusement faded. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Gyselle answered immediately. Idiot. She never takes that for an answer. "Truthfully, nothing. It was just normal."

"Is that what angers you?" Hulla asked.

"Does it not anger you any longer?" Gyselle retorted. "To think that this is normal for us. Is that something which you stop being angry about?"

Hulla gave her a long look, then gave a shrug. "Anger is a fire. It burns and rages, but only if it is fed. There are many in the world who will happily help you to feed that fire. But it is wearisome to tend that fire constantly. It can be a relief to stand back and watch the fire die out."

Gyselle shivered, but she could not determine whether that was due to the cold water or not.

A thought returned to her as she sat in her meagre bath. It was one which often came to her when she was working. She had never spoken to Hulla about it before; she had always hoped that things would change on their own. But after several years of working as a prostitute, nothing had changed, and Gyselle could not shake the doubts and questions from her mind.

Thus, even though she knew what Hulla would say, she looked up at the older woman and gave voice to her concerns.

"It never feels good. No matter who it is, no matter what we do... I never take any pleasure from it. Ever."

Hulla paused, then sat down beside the tub so that she and Gyselle's eyes were level.

"Have you tried to make yourself feel it?"

Gyselle blushed, and she looked away. She was too embarrassed to speak of her experiences, which had been utterly tedious. Her ventures were so unrewarding, in fact, that she'd given up on them by the time she was fifteen.

"Have you ever thought about lying with other women?"

Gyselle shook her head.

"I never feel any... any of what the men feel when they finish. I don't know if I have ever finished or if I just... never finish at all."

Hulla did not answer, and Gyselle nerved herself to look at her again. The Ironborn woman was giving her a thoughtful look.

"Mayhaps it is rare," Hulla finally said, "But you are not alone in that."

"Not alone?" Gyselle stared in astonishment. "You too?"

Hulla shook her head. "Not me, no. But there were others I met who thought little of fucking. Do you remember Sara? She came from some town called Costel or Costowe, something like that."

Gyselle frowned. She recalled the name and the woman who answered to it, but she could not quite remember what she looked like.

"No matter," Hulla continued, "I worked alongside her for five years, and she felt the same as you did. She said it made her feel a fraud. But she also made her peace with it. She said she was a fraud, but she was all right with that."

"Was she?" Gyselle asked.

"Of course!" Hulla gave a snort. "If whores needed to tell the truth, men would never recover their pride again!"

Gyselle laughed at that, even as she arose from the tub. Hulla stood as well, handing her a sheet.

"There was also Widow Poundstone," she resumed as Gyselle dried herself. "Widow Poundstone managed the Waynside Inn. She taught me everything I know about this line of work. She could make a man think he drove her wild. All of it an act on her part. She loved to jape that no man or woman ever pleased her better than a good glass of hippocras."

She put a hand on Gyselle's shoulder. "I know it might seem strange, but you are neither alone nor broken."

Gyselle nodded slowly; she did feel mollified by Hulla's assurance, and also by the notion that there were others who were like her after all.

"Now let's quench that fire with something to drink. What do you say?"

Gyselle gave Hulla a wry glance. "With the stuff you drink, it would only make the fire flare up."

The Ironborn gave another burst of snorting laughter as she left Gyselle alone to dress herself.

Later, they descended from the whores' rooms to sit in the main floor. The brothel, which bore the name House Tart, was designed so that the main floor was set up like an inn.

The barman was a lanky greybeard named Lunz. He was a former mercenary who had ranged across the Seven Kingdoms, but an enemy shaft had pierced his armour, right through the poleyn as he claimed. Lunz still walked with a limp, but few dared to vex him.

An exception to that was Ser Rickard. He was a short man, with dark curly hair, an easy smile, and a quick wit. He had been born to House Merzer, a knightly family from Midcove on Tarth, a large island east of the Stormlands. He had travelled far and wide before purchasing the brothel in Penmore and branding it with a name that mocked his former liege lords.

At present, Ser Rickard cheerfully beckoned Gyselle and Hulla to his side. "Well met, ladies. How are you getting on?"

Hulla smiled and answered him politely, while Gyselle said nothing. This gallantry would not fool her. She was not yet sure if Ser Rickard was mocking her or else was trying to flatter his way into her chamber. However, she did not want to risk being rude to him in case he should evict her and Hulla. Instead, she was on the hunt for wherever he hid his personal fortune.

"What's the good word, Ser Rickard?" Hulla asked as she sat down beside the short man. "Anything to report?"

Ser Rickard scratched one of his ears as he replied in his thick accent. "Good news. Best kind, in fact. Word is that Lord Strickland is calling the banners. Something about a rebellion, but don't ask me what it's about. Either way, there'll be a lot of lads coming into Penmore any day now, and you can bet that this place will be blocked for three fortnights at least!"

"This place won't be all that's blocked," Hulla remarked dryly.

Ser Rickard gave a loud guffaw of laughter. "That's worth a drink on me!" He turned to Lunz and gave him a wink.

"Ale," Hulla requested, then silently toasted Ser Rickard when the drink was set down before her.

"Anything for you, milady?" Ser Rickard smiled at Gyselle.

She shook her head. "I'm not thirsty, Ser."

"Suit yourself." Ser Rickard got up and stretched his limbs. "Well, I'd best make sure Old Sedgewick knows about the big muster. Can't have him sleeping on a profit." He strolled out. Lunz was giving Gyselle a strange look, so she was soon walking out of the brothel as well.

It was a sunny day, and all around her, the settlement was preparing for war. The smithies, including that of Sedgewick's, were ringing with hammer blows on hot metal. Farmers were herding animals towards the castle, and she could also see a pile of unmade tents along the Roseroad beyond the town's limits.

"So, how did Ser Rickard gall you?"

The question had been not been asked maliciously, but Gyselle was incensed all the same. She turned to face Hulla. "No man is gallant for nothing."

"You think so?" Hulla shrugged. "Sometimes a man is exactly what he seems."

Gyselle was surprised; Hulla could never be accused of being a dreamer. "Do you fancy him? Is that it?"

Hulla snorted. "Even if I did, I suspect it would be for naught."

"What does that mean?" Gyselle asked.

Hulla gave her a puzzled look, but before she could speak, a loud trumpet sounded, followed by Ser Mortimer Oldflowers' loud and pompous voice.

"Make way! Go on! Make way!"

Hulla and Gyselle skirted aside just in time. Ser Mortimer and a half-dozen of his men strode down the Roseroad. Behind them came a line of men on horseback, armed with plate and mail. Two banners flew above the horsemen; one was green with the silver ox of House Strickland, while the other was divided into three wide triangles that were black, green, and blue. One of House Strickland's bannermen, no doubt.

The horsemen were led by a man who bore the triangles on his surcoat. His helm was under one arm, leaving his head bare. He was a pale young man with hair that reminded Gyselle of muddied straw. His armour was fine quality, as was his horse. Gyselle had never seen such a large destrier in her life. It was coal-black in colour, and even though it was plodding along at a slow pace, Gyselle took a half-step back from it.

Her movement prompted the rider to glance at her. For a moment, he was stone-faced, but then his expression softened, and he gave her a small nod. Gyselle returned the gesture, forgetting to smile and court him as a future customer. He had already passed her by, leaving her to curse herself for a fool.

Behind the line of horses marched dozens of men on foot. Some were armed with mail, others with leather, and their weapons ranged from swords and bows to farmers' tools. Several of them were singing as they marched, but it was impossible to glean what the words were amidst all the noise.

"Magnificent. Makes me proud to be knighted!"

It was Ser Rickard. He had returned from Sedgwick's, now he was strolling back along the Roseroad, eyeing the new arrivals with interest.

"Seems the banners are coming sooner than I thought!" He gave a grin to Gyselle and Hulla. "I just hope it won't be too soon when they pay us a visit!" He walked back into the brothel, shaking his head and laughing at his own joke.

"We'd best get ready." Hulla urged Gyselle before she too went back indoors.

Still thinking of the young man on the black horse, Gyselle followed the others into House Tart.