Chapter 78 — Uh… I'm Curious
Were Tyrion visiting alone, he would've been far more cautious.
But with Podrick's warning still fresh in his mind, his arrival here felt—
appropriately timed.
That didn't mean he allowed satisfaction to show on his face.
The moment he stepped through the door, Chataya glided forward, bowed low, and began to sing out:
"Welcome, Hand of the—"
She didn't get to finish.
Tyrion's gaze flicked—deliberately—toward the deep inviting valley framed by her dark silk robes.
No one appreciated Chataya's devotion to her craft more than he did.
But he cut her off anyway.
"Best not mention titles," he murmured, voice leisurely but firm.
"Titles are dangerous things."
"Names too, while we're at it."
He spoke just loud enough for nearby patrons to overhear—
as if he were a first-time visitor attempting discretion and failing only halfway.
Then he wagged a finger.
"Now… why don't you bring out a few girls for me to inspect."
Not wholly a lie—
just not the whole truth.
Chataya dipped her chin, voice smooth as flowing amber, still laced with the Summer Isles' musical lilt.
"With pleasure, little lord.
You will find them gentle, beautiful…
and well-trained in every art of love."
She turned with feline grace, leading Tyrion deeper into the perfumed shadows.
He followed, stumping along on legs half the length of hers, eyes scanning the room.
Not much had changed.
The memory of dead Gold Cloaks and smashed furniture hung in the air like a faint perfume—
yet the place thrummed with life again.
A reed- flute trilled somewhere above, playful and light.
A drunk Tyroshi lounged in a cushioned niche, hands roaming over a full-figured girl seated on his lap.
He had undone the lace of her bodice and now poured wine across her generous chest—
lapping it off with theatrical slowness.
Beneath a glass-panelled bed, two younger girls played tiles.
One with freckles and honey-gold curls, a crown of blue flowers in her hair.
The other dark and sleek as polished obsidian.
Colored lanternlight bled through stained glass, washing the brothel in red and amber glow—
casting the girls like dream-born spirits descending from some decadent heaven.
Chataya halted before the pair, smiling.
"If it pleases you, I recommend the dark-skinned girl."
Tyrion inclined his head, grimacing only at the ache swelling in his groin.
"She looks young," he observed.
"Sixteen, my lord," Chataya replied smoothly.
Tyrion snorted.
"Perfect age for Joffrey, then."
The name sparked something bitter:
memories of the road here, conversations with Bronn, and
older ghosts still—his own youth, his first time,
a girl with hair black as night and eyes blue enough to drown in.
So long ago.
And the dwarf remained the same hopeless fool.
He rubbed his temples.
"Why am I here?
Wasn't it Pod who said bargaining with eunuchs is like haggling with tigers?"
"Yet here I am again.
Gods, I am a fool."
He cleared his throat.
"This girl… from your homeland?"
Chataya lifted her chin.
"My daughter carries the blood of the Summer Isles, yes—
but she was born here in King's Landing."
Tyrion raised a brow.
She continued, reading his expression with ease:
"Where I come from, my lord, selling laughter in a brothel is no shame.
In the Summer Isles, skill in the bedchamber is a virtue worthy of respect.
Noble sons and daughters often serve in brothels for a time—
to honor the gods."
Tyrion blinked.
He'd heard many things in his life—
but not that.
"What," he demanded, "do the gods have to do with that?"
Never let it be said Tyrion Lannister refused to ask questions.
Chataya laughed softly, though reverence touched her gaze.
"Our bodies and souls are gifts from the gods, are they not?"
"They gave us voices, that we might sing their praises."
"Hands, that we might labor and raise temples in their honor."
"And desires—so that through union, we exalt the divine."
Tyrion stared.
Seven hells.
That's either utterly blasphemous…
or utterly brilliant.
He turned back to her, face solemn as a septon at prayer.
"Remind me to repeat that to the High Septon," he said, deadly serious.
"If my cock counts as an altar, I might very well be the most devout man in this city."
Chataya laughed, delighted.
Tyrion exhaled, resigned.
"Very well," he said.
"I'll take your recommendation."
Watching the dwarf spout solemn nonsense with a perfectly straight face, Chataya was surprised to find she couldn't tell where the performance ended and sincerity began.
"I'll fetch my daughter at once.
This way, please."
She drifted off like wind through willow branches, leaving behind a faint trail of wood-spice fragrance.
By the time Tyrion and the girl met again, they were already in a more familiar room.
Only now, compared to last time, the curtains were gone, furnishings simplified—
even the grand bed no longer shrouded behind layers of gauze.
Perhaps the death of those Gold Cloaks had produced results.
Alayaya was taller than Shae, though a little shorter than her mother.
So she had to kneel for Tyrion to kiss her properly.
Tyrion first glanced toward the door—locked.
Only then did he allow the tension to ease from his shoulders.
He flopped onto the bed with a tired grunt.
His legs felt like wet rope, muscles twitching.
He honestly couldn't recall how many miles they'd carried him today.
He thumped his thigh once, winced, then looked up at the girl before him.
"Someone asked me to give you a message, Alayaya."
The girl's eyes lit up—then immediately clouded with a practiced glimmer of tears.
"I'm guessing it's from the marvelous Podrick Payne, isn't it, my lord Hand?
He hasn't visited in some time…
Please tell me it's not something that should make me cry."
Tyrion cleared his throat.
Podrick had definitely anticipated this, the little devil.
He regretted accepting the task, but after everything Pod had endured under Cersei's 'hospitality,' it would've been shameful not to deliver.
"Of course not. He said you're very beautiful—
and once he finishes these next few busy days, he'll certainly come keep you company."
Alayaya's eyes softened, lips curling with confidence.
"I won't be the only one though."
Tyrion's mouth twitched.
"Right… yes… you all, then."
An awkward silence stretched.
His lips twitched again, and he finally gave in to the question clawing at his mind since the first time Pod returned glowing with rumors.
"So… ah… forgive me, but I'm very curious.
What exactly happened that day?"
He tried to sound concerned, but curiosity leaked through like wine through cracked wood.
"I mean, yes, of course I care for your safety—deeply!—
but I'm asking about the other part.
The part before the trouble started—"
He leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"What did my former squire actually do that day?
Is he… ah… talented… in some unexpected way?"