FLASHBACK

“Ale! More ale, girl!” Elenor roared.

Whenever the sun had taken its rest beneath the mountains to the west, the Red Siren bustled. Moans, shouts, fights; it had it all, and on the night of the new king’s enthronement, in the midst of the dim red illumination of the brothel, there they were on chairs of oak, sitting across from each other before a round low-table: Jorah Crow and Elenor Lockwood, both still clad in the silver of their armour and fastened black capes of the guards of the kingdom of Ravenwing, their faces flushed redly and their eyes filled with drunkenness.  

“Damn you, girl. Where’s my ale?!” Elenor spat, his eyes ablaze like a torch, and his thick voice, which had grown louder than before, standing out amongst the clamour enlivening the brothel. 

Cicily came scurrying with the ale, her legs sore from her constant back and forth service. Elenor looked at her, his hooded shaped eyes roofed by ginger bushy brows still aglow with ire, but it was no longer like that of a torch, it had calmed down—the ewer of ale he saw in her hands had calmed him down. The helmet which had covered his craggy face during his day’s work, sat on his right thigh, it was an armet designed with the raven crest of the royal family on its forehead. 

He sat a man nearing his forties with a scraggly beard to groom, and the grey strands mixed with the ginger of his shaggy hair, chased back at the edges by a widow’s peak, made sure to remind him of that. He was growing old, he knew. Very soon he would have to retire from being a royal guard and live the rest of his life farming or tending to pigs—oh, how much he hated both. So he chose to drown himself every night in the touch of women and the drowsiness of alcohol, until the very day he hated came. 

While on the other side of the table sat someone who shared not his fate: Jorah Crow. A bastard young man in his early twenties. He sat with his hand placed on his helmet positioned at the edge of the table, his hair a tousled one with a colour of ash-brown, and his freckled face, graced with the stubble on its edges, brightly red with a sustained grin as he watched Elenor. If at all he shared anything with the man he was in the company of, it was falling drunk, even though he had drunk fewer ale.

“Sit, girl. Do your job properly.” Elenor pulled Cicily down to his left thigh, wrapping his arm around her waist and placing his hand on her lap. He could feel the smoothness of her skin through the gown which covered her, and the little goose pimples that arose from the sensations his palm delivered to her body. She was still a green girl, her maidenhead not yet broken—it was as plain as white silk bathed in the light of day.

“A boy on the throne brings worries, beyond a doubt,” Elenor complained to Jorah as his penetrating gaze probed at Cicily while she filled two flagons. His eyes watched her, from her brown hair, to her throat, to her quivering hands burdened with the task of filling the flagons from the ewer of ale, and down to her waist. She felt uncomfortable and bare-skinned, it was as though his eyes had ripped her dress completely from her body. “What about you, lad? What do you think?” 

Jorah Crow stretched his hand slightly and took hold of a filled flagon, dragging it towards himself. “He’s kind. I believe he’ll do well.” 

Cicily had now filled Elenor’s flagon as well, allowing him to take hold and chug half of the pale straw pool of liquid down his throat. “What do you take the throne for, kid? A farm where you plant seeds with care and kindness and you get a healthy yield?” He burped loudly before giving a reply, the yellow ale staring up at him from below. “That seat of bronze isn’t a playground. Kindness won’t cut it for the prince.”

“The king,” Jorah corrected, his grin of drunkenness carrying on, unabated.

Elenor’s nose wrung up, his lips following in return as an irritated visage stormed his face. He shook the flagon in his hand viciously, tears of ale spilling out at every turn as he uttered a reply, “Aye, the king, but still a boy at heart, kindness won’t cut it either…”

“I agree,” a voice lighter than a feather, supported Elenor from the back of Jorah, drawing the gazes of all three sitting at the low table to it. The voice was a lady’s—less doubt of it being otherwise, since it was devoid of harshness nor strength, only calmness and a spice of warmth—and the grin which had managed to remain on Jorah’s lips for a while finally ran away, with a dog’s pace nonetheless.

The lady hid her face beneath the hood of a linen cloak dyed with the black of night. She stood as mysterious as the guardians of the blood tower—men whose faces were covered with masks of the unseen, and saw not the light of day outside the tower, eating and sleeping with the prisoners deemed unworthy to live as normal men—but not for long did she stand. She ambled, leading their watchful gazes as she pulled over a free chair and took a seat at their table. 

Elenor Lockwood was the first to speak up. “And who might you be?” He asked, incredulously, his eyes wearing a suss gaze which he anchored on her, for any good it might do him.

“Someone,” the mysterious lady replied. “I shall not bother with your names, so I ask you not to bother with mine.” 

“I would not have bothered with who you were if you had not sat at our table,” Elenor sneered, staring fixedly at her, as well the others who were at the table remaining silent, they had left the talking to the ginger haired man—Cicily would not have talked even if she wanted to, the only words that were allowed to come out of her mouth were not one of queries, but either ones of reply or one to ask of their orders. 

“Leave, and I’ll have no need of whatever is hidden under that cloak. Stay, and you either speak your name or live to regret not.” Elenor threatened. 

The mysterious lady remained seated, neither moving to leave nor uttering a word of reply of who she was. The youngling guard, Jorah, began to feel a stiff air surrounding the table. He had known Elenor for a year now, and if there was anything he was, it was a man to live by his words. He would make her regret it if she spoke not, unless… she could make him discard his swears, and there were only two things that could ever make him do that: alcohol and coins, lots of coins. If she gave him either, she could undoubtedly stay without a word of her name or reveal of her face, the alcohol or coin would have paid for it. 

“Leave?” Said the mysterious lady, after a while. “That I cannot do.” 

“Then regret it you shall.” Elenor was about to push Cicily off his thigh and rise to his feet in a storm, when he heard her speak once more, a word that ensured he was firmly held to his seat. 

“Wine,” she said. 

“Wine?” Elenor had a face mixed with annoyance and confusion, but he leaned towards the word: wine, rather than what made him annoyed. “Wine, you say?”

“I’m sure you’re tired of filling your belly with this yellow drink for savages. I shall pay for wine, the finest in the kingdom, if you let me stay.” 

Jorah shivered immediately as soft pimples of fear spread all over his skin. She read my mind?! He thought. He was shaken to the core, and as he blinked a few times, the drunken feeling he had worn like a hunter, wearing the fur of a bear he had slain, vanished ever so hurriedly. But he reprimanded himself quickly. Stupid, he called himself, there’s no way that’s ever possible, he sighed, relieving himself of fear—unsolicited fear. 

Elenor’s stone face softened into a somewhat ugly smile, the yellow of ale stuck to his teeth while a few white struggled to be visible—they failed no doubt. “Order the wine and you’re welcome to stay,” he chuckled as he took a glance at Jorah who gave a weak smile in return, then fixed his gaze back on the budding norks of the worker on his thigh. 

“You. Yes, you. What’s your price?” The mysterious lady asked, her question directed at Cicily.

Cicily replied, trying to stop her voice from quivering any further than it had already, “Wh-what wine would you—”

“Not wine,” the lady cut in, and as well tore off the smile on Elenor’s face, and replaced it with a glance of query, before she added, almost immediately, “the wine shall come after. The price I ask of is you. What’s your price to bed these two men?” Elenor’s smile returned, as creepy as ever, but it was not the same for Cicily, and surprisingly, Jorah. They both quivered at the question. Jorah was shaken at the thought of crossing into the world of men, and Cicily at the thought that after tonight her world would shift farther away from what she had dreamt it to be as a child. 

“My-my price? I-I don’t have one yet, my lady.” She had completely forgotten to say what some of the older workers had told her now that she was faced with a situation. You’re green. You’ll fetch more coins. Charge five silvers a man, they’ll have no choice but to pay. She was now worth five silvers, she thought, and it would become less after tonight. She wanted to cry, but she dared not—not before her customers, the madame would not have such. She had been sold, this was her world now and she had better embrace it or it would hurt more every time. 

“I’ll pay ten silvers for each man. Bring the wine here so they’ll have something to drink once they return, then take them to a room, one with a feather bed for their comfort. I want the most expensive wine you have,” the lady explained clearly enough for Cicily’s ears. The mention of the wine made Elenor’s body tingle excitedly, so much he forgot he was old—or getting old. 

“Why? The wine is already enough payment for your secrecy, so why are you spending more for our pleasure?” Jorah questioned, letting his curiosity spill forth. Elenor had his suspicions as well, but he would rather drink wine and bed a woman than ask at this point, and so he frowned upon Jorah’s question, but before he could make his feelings known, she replied.

“Stories. I make my money by telling stories I’ve heard across different towns, and you two seemed to know a bit about the new king. And I believe enjoying yourselves would only make you more willing to talk, don’t you think? Just see of it as an investment, I, without a doubt, will surely get a return. Nothing is free, everything comes at a price.” She smiled, or maybe that was what Jorah thought happened beneath her hood as he slowly nodded, seemingly convinced at what she had said, his eyes moving gradually until it caught Cicily’s, which made him shiver slightly as he remembered what would happen in a few. 

The mysterious lady loosened a pouch of coins from underneath her cloak, and gestured at Cicily with it, inciting her to whip up from Elenor’s thigh and take hold of the pouch. For the wine and your service, she had said, after which Cicily bowed and led the two men stiffly to a room around a corner, before returning with a silver ewer containing the pre-ordered wine and three cups, placing it on the table before the mysterious lady who now sat alone. 

As she returned to the room where Elenor and Jorah were waiting, few of the older workers that were free, espied her and giggled mockingly as they gisted between themselves, watching her as she walked slowly and rigidly to the room. When she first arrived, she had cried and spat at the thought of becoming one of them, but now, there she was, about to become what she had hated and despised, and there was no way to stop it.