Despite the hour, the brothel was crowded. Chataya greeted them pleasantly and escorted them to the common room. Bronn went upstairs with a dark-eyed girl from Dorne, but Alayaya was busy entertaining. “She will be so pleased to know you’ve come,” said Chataya. “I will see that the turret¹ room is made ready for you. Will my lord take a cup of wine while he waits?”  “I will,” he said.   The wine was poor stuff compared to the vintages from the Arbor² the house normally served. “You must forgive us, my lord,” Chataya said. “I cannot find good wine at any price of late.”  “You are not alone in that, I fear.”  Chataya commiserated³ with him a moment, then excused herself and glided⁴ off. A handsome woman, Tyrion reflected as he watched her go. He had seldom seen such elegance⁵ and dignity in a whore. Though to be sure, she saw herself more as a kind of priestess. Perhaps that is the secret. It is not what we do, so much as why we do it. Somehow that thought comforted him.  A few of the other patrons were giving him sideways looks. The last time he ventured out, a man had spit on him... well, had tried to. Instead he’d spit on Bronn, and in future would do his spitting without teeth.  “Is milord feeling unlove?” Dancy slid into his lap and nibbled⁶ at his ear. “I have a cure for that.”  Smiling, Tyrion shook his head. “You are too beautiful for words, sweetling, but I’ve grown fond of Alayaya’s remedy.”  “You’ve never tried mine. Milord never chooses anyone but ‘Yaya. She’s good but I’m better, don’t you want to see?”  “Next time, perhaps.” Tyrion had no doubt that Dancy would be a lively handful. She was pug-nosed and bouncy, with freckles⁷ and a mane of thick red hair that tumbled down past her waist. But he had Shae waiting for him at the manse. 

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