Doreah had never known any life outside the brothel house with golden borders. The Embroidered Maid as it was colloquially called. It had been a minor detail in the construction, how the workers had painted the wood a golden color that managed to fool many an untrained or lazy eye into thinking the brothel was literally lined with gold. It had caused a few problems with more gullible or foolhardy young men attempting to take pieces of the 'valuable' embroidered support beams inside the house on a dare, but overall it was considered a well worth mark of distinction, especially since the house itself was placed as it was between the great temple of R'hllor and the equally splendorous temple of his daughters. Better known as Lys's own patron goddesses: The Lady of Passion and her twin The Lady of Sorrow. The second was the protector, she who led the Lyseni to seek ways outside war to resolve their problems, even if that meant abandoning dreams of combat and battlefield glory as so many of her neighbors seemed to treasure. Whereas the first was considered she who blessed and watched over the unions of Lys. Who believed seeking the beauty in life served to show man his purpose in the world and so encouraged it in any of the myriad forms he could conceive. This belief in the strength of beauty and love had allowed Lys to be some of the greatest studies in the art of breeding in the world. Both the pleasure that could be derived and the resulting fruit such unions bore from the act.
Doreah herself was a product of this. Her mother Mederi had been a pleasure slave all her life: a fair-skinned, brown haired woman whose aristocratic cheeks and imperious eyes had been played up whenever she put on her mask for the day. Her mask being the name she gave her make-up and the attitude she adopted when entertaining patrons. To Doreah's young naiveté, these things combined to allow her to seem as regal as any princess or queen and highlighted her smoky blue eyes. This opinion wouldn't last into her adolescence, but it had been there no matter how the memories were tainted now. In her head she knew that her mother loved her dearly. But her heart hurt whenever she thought of her. For when she did, her memory also dredged up the looks her mother's patrons and on some occasions fellow slaves gave her, some of the comments of how much her flowering would be worth, how her mother had only ever giggled demurely in response to such talk before leading them away to earn their coin. The mask wouldn't have allowed anything else through she knew now. But that didn't change her stubborn heart no matter how much she wished that it could.
She only had the vaguest of memories of her father: he himself had been a slave to the temple of R'hllor in Lys. A temple that was larger even than the better known house of fire worship in Volantis that trained the 100 elite soldiers known as the Guardians of the Flame. She didn't know whether this was her memory playing tricks on her or not, but she seemed to recall that her father had possessed light blonde hair that bordered white in the right light and green eyes that shone like emeralds. Her understanding later, when she met the Line-Tracers in person, was that her mother had been given consent to lie with her father and conceive a child from him so that her Western looks might be tempered into something more Valyrian: along the lines of a light haired young girl who could pass as a bastard of Targaryen nobility or a trueborn itself. From a practical standpoint, Doreah knew her looks could be said to be closer to the region known as the Reach or perhaps the Westerlands than the Valyrian descended Targaryens and so overall both was and wasn't quite the result the Line-Tracers had been seeking when they allowed her mother to have her. But never the less, she was to be given the obligatory training every child born to a pleasure slave received. Lessons focusing upon the physical aspects of pleasure, with advanced lessons in mental pleasure later if they proved apt enough at the physical. After all, what point was there in teaching one who'd never amount to more than a common whore how to ensnare a great political figure when they were barely capable of doing more than one or two of the Dances?
But she'd been given an education in the pleasuring of the human body from the time she was old enough to understand what it was to feel good at seven namedays. At first it was simple things: massage techniques, common areas that held stress and tension in the human body. She hadn't proven as apt at those teachings as some of her peers. But looking back on it, that had probably been a minor saving grace for her. After she had grown older, she had learned that those who proved skilled enough in the application of massage and relaxation were often given live clients that much sooner than their less talented brethren.
From there it had moved onto some of the basics of the Bloodrush Dances: the movements that taught any woman of any body type how best to show themselves off to a potential client. Doreah herself found a special aptitude in the Winding Rivers variation of the Dances. It was a subtype meant to be practiced by women whose body was considered neither hefty nor scrawny but somewhere in that elusive balance between the two and whose flexibility lay in the arms rather than the legs. Her torso was almost considered too long for this sort of dance, but the heft of her breasts, though not pendulous, was considered enough to offset it to the point that she could not easily be switched to the Whispering Reeds variation of the Dances.
This she practiced in the same manner those of a particular faith might pray to the idol of their choice. She would constantly be testing her own flexibility, making sure her back and her arms continued to be as limber and useful as possible to her when alone outside of lessons. She didn't make many friends inside the lessons anyway since they were all too busy trying to avoid punishment by the instructors to truly connect with anyone. And then when she moved onto the art of donning the Mask, she truly shone.
Perhaps watching her mother all that time had done her some good after all or perhaps it was some inborn natural talent. But in any case, it was discovered that she had an aptitude for engendering positive feelings in those she was assigned. Whether it meant letting them treat her as they would a lover, a sibling, a parent or even a child in some cases. Her ability to make conversation and speak with those who chose to talk with her was such that she was able to fake political and religious ideas she couldn't care less about. So when it came time to learn in what capacity she would be serving the Lady of Passion, she was again surprised. A magister from Pentos had bought her mother some years ago, a blonde somewhat heavy-set man who had claimed he needed someone whose loyalty he could guarantee for an important position. Doreah had been sure her mother was being sought as a concubine or perhaps a noble lady's handmaiden meant to function as a lord's side piece: one of the better options for those trained to serve the Hot-Blooded Lady.
But it seemed she had been wrong. The Magister, whose name turned out to be Illyrio, had returned requesting her services for his household. She wasn't told what those services would be, only that the money he was paying was enough to cover the cost of at least three pleasure slave contracts. And so she was released into his service and taken by ship to the mainland before joining his retinue as he traveled back to Pentos via the roads that led through Myr. For a young woman who had rarely been outside of the Embroidered Maid and never left the city limits of Lys, it was jarring to be taken via wagon through so much open terrain and other cities and villages entirely.
As they'd traveled onward, Illyrio had surprised her by asking what training she had in the arts of womanly pleasure instead of slaking his passions with her body. At first. She answered him truthfully as to her training, telling him of what she had been taught in physical and mental terms. He'd seemed sufficiently pleased, if the way the stubby ring encrusted fingers of his right hand had stroked his forked golden beard had been any indication.
It wasn't until they had been approaching Myr that he decided to find out firsthand what kind of talent she had in the arts of pleasing others. What he lacked in stamina, he attempted to make up for in enthusiasm. It didn't really, but she knew better than to say as much. Just as Doreah knew better than to express her disgust at the fact that his gut hung over his cock like a protective awning above a baazar when the midsummer heats could manage to make a man feel as though he were mummifying where he stood. Just as she also knew better than to comment that he appeared to have had some trouble washing below his gut and relied a bit too much on perfumes and scented oils to disguise the scent of his body when outside of his colorful robes. It was fortunate than that this was far from her first time dealing with a patron who believed themselves the world's gift to womankind. As his seed splashed onto her palm and breasts, she wondered to herself how many this made that felt it somehow marked her to finish upon her skin like this. After the first five times, she'd grown indifferent to the sensation of rapidly cooling seed congealing on her where before it had elicited only disgust. Such was the ironic existence of one brought up a pleasure slave: one quickly discovered how to numb themselves to disgust they may have had simply because their patron's pleasure came before their own.
While he had business to attend to in Myr, she was left with his guards. They'd been given strict instructions not to take their leave of her body. Though that didn't stop them from staring or getting in the occasional touch whenever they felt emboldened enough by drink to think they could get away with it. For the most part she avoided them, electing to remain in the wheeled palanquin that had housed herself and her new owner on their way to this city. She couldn't tell what it was he wanted with her. It obviously wasn't sexual satisfaction. And while it didn't appear to be her company either, she couldn't imagine he had a son whose pleasure he wanted her to see to. Most men in his position would've brought the boy with them so that when they picked out the bed warmer, it was one that they could be sure they wouldn't have any complaints about. Getting the most value for coin spent after all.
Her wonderings were put to an end once she reached his manse in Pentos and introduced to a boy of twenty three namedays called Viscerys Targaryen. There had been some minor rumblings in Lys around the time the Targaryen dynasty had fallen in Westeros. Though considering she'd been all of two years at the time, it hadn't had all that much significance to her until later when she was forced to learn the western looks she had been specifically bred to imitate.
The exiled prince had walked around her in a circle, his lilac eyes inspecting her body as though searching for flaws. She held still, letting him take her in as the fabric of her plain serving girl's dress fluttered slightly in the breeze that swept through the open window. She wasn't over worried about his opinion, having been inspected by better than he multiple times as her body had developed. The Line-Tracers had to know how to thoroughly examine anyone so as to make their records as accurate as possible after all.
"A fitting handmaiden for young Daenerys, wouldn't you say your grace?"Illyrio chortled as he sat upon a nearby wicker and wooden chair Doreah was privately surprised could hold under his weight.
The boy four years her elder narrowed his eyes slightly at that comment, as though displeased that an opinion other than his own had been made. Where his expression held some traces of lust, now it held a slight amount of contempt, as though he were prepared to declare her unsatisfactory simply to prove that his host didn't know his tastes as well as he assumed.
She automatically sank into a western curtsey. "It is an honor simply to be considered to serve your family your grace." She flattered carefully, keeping her head down as she curtsied. She'd seen men like Viscerys with some of the other girls before. They usually got off more on deference and submission than they did on any kind of sexual act. Like the sense of power they had from others kowtowing to them was a pleasure in and of itself. Those were more often than not the more dangerous patrons to have because you could never be sure just where they would draw the line at demanding obedience if they drew it at all. Many of them might've started off with the smaller things like proper courtesies applied to themselves first. But many quickly graduated to other shows obedience and power playing: some going as far as collars and humiliating punishments for the smallest of imaginary infractions against their dignity.
It was a dangerous thing she was doing now, but she didn't truly have a choice in the matter. Magister Illyrio owned her contract and apparently meant her to be a handmaiden to this exiled prince's sister. If he had treated his sister with anything approaching the cold hateful arrogance he did her, the girl was not like to keep her if he disapproved. And if she didn't fulfill the role the overweight magister had in mind for her, she would more than likely end up dead. After all, she was just one more pleasure slave from Lys: the city which bred pleasure slaves for a living. Who would possibly miss her?
His longer fingers cupped her chin, inching her face up to look at him. She had to suppress a fearful shiver at the subdued look of mad glee in his eyes. Her own mouth curled upwards in a simpering smile, her eyes as blank as she could make them so that he would not suspect she was canny enough to be attempting to manipulate him.
"Well, this one at least knows her place Magister." He pronounced with more happiness than previously. "I question what purpose she is to serve at my sweet sister's side however. What use would a Targaryen queen have for a pleasure slave?"
"Who better to learn the womanly art of pleasure from your grace?" The magister answered, leaning back in his chair as his pudgy hands came to rest upon his rounded gut. He at least seemed to know what game Doreah was playing with his ward like this if the slight incline of his head wasn't just her imagination playing tricks on her.
Doreah hoped she imagined how the slight madness in the Targaryen's eyes seemed to increase at just now.
"Then I suppose she will be starting her lessons immediately? That is if the horselord savage could appreciate such a thing?" He said, letting go of her chin as he strode in what he must have imagined was a regal fashion toward the seated magister. Though the fact that his boot heels came down too loud on the tile floor made it more comical than intimidating, especially when he could only take four steps before being right in front of his provider.
"Likely he would not know the difference your grace. T'would likely serve better for Drogo to see her as she is before we discuss whether he shall appreciate the gift of her maidenhead in exchange for reclaiming your throne." He smiled, rising as he placed a hand around the young man's shoulder.
His left hand waved negligently at Doreah as though dismissing her.
"In the meantime, we have more business we must discuss your grace. And we should likely give the girl something to do with herself in the meantime so she has no temptation of spoiling the gift you've been generous enough to give your sister." He said.
Viscerys clicked his fingers at her impatiently.
"You heard him whore. Make yourself useful to the magister's servants and begone." He said impatiently.
Doreah did not need to be told twice. She curtsied once more before leaving and closing the door gently behind her before she made her way toward one of the nearby guards. When she asked where the kitchens were, he did not question it, simply told her how to get there. Likely he assumed what she had when first the magister bought her: that she was to be a bed warmer for him who would in the meantime work as a scullery maid so as not to draw any scandalous attention from others of his station. It almost made Doreah wish she could roll her eyes at these highborns to their faces. They made such a great production over sexuality that it was no wonder the Lady of Passions had given Lys its rise to prominence. People always desired that which they could not have. That which they built up in the confines of their own mind, fantasy and reality confused as one thing.
But as she made her way toward the smell of fire and cooking, she knew that she was in trouble here. The girl she was to be handmaiden for wasn't to see her before she was to be married to her husband. When she did, she was to instruct her in how to be a better lover so that her husband did not grow dangerously bored of her. And if her brother's comment about a horselord was any indication, it could very well be her life hung in the balance of her future husband's interest in her. She and the other girls of Lys had often been told stories about the slaves taken by Dothraki. How they were never the same after enduring their captivity. How they had witnessed cruelty and barbarism against those they considered weaker than them that was sickening to any of a decent temperament.
She supposed she should've known that no patron who wished for her mother's extended services could've wanted her for anything simple or safe. But she had no choice. For after all, she was but another pleasure slave of countless others from Lys. And if she didn't try to keep herself alive, who did she expect would?
A/N: To be honest, I always felt sorry for Doreah. Especially when the show took the trouble to characterize her and then had her die due to stupidity rather than wasting illness. Ah well. What can you do right? Next chapter will be Westeros again. Hope you guys enjoy! :)