AEMOND TARGARYEN / MERRY CHRISTMAS GIFTS

Dirty work will always be vile. And you never knew if your hands were dirtier from the cheap lamp oil or your soul — from every "yes" spoken without desire. That's how you lived. Existed among perfumes that failed to mask the salty aftertaste of disappointment, among laughter that rang hollow. You simply worked in the brothel, identified by a room number, not a name.

Sometimes even royal persons came. They seemed to fall from the sky right into this mire. Like those young men with hair white as silver. One of them was always drunk — his laughter was sharp, like broken glass. And the other... the other never smiled. He didn't even seem to want sex as much as he wanted... support. Like tonight. His gaze looked right through you, to some distant point in the past or a future that didn't include you.

By the way, he often left more money than necessary. He didn't speak when silence was heavier than words. He just came, lay silent in your embrace under the blanket, breathing evenly and deeply, as if filling his lungs properly for the first time that day. He took you only to be. Occupied hours when other clients were already knocking on the door. Offered you a better house, dressed you in fabrics that covered the body, not displayed it. You still have those warm, oversized sweaters — his quiet means of protection from the gazes he so despised.

Was he caring for you or mocking you? I didn't understand that either. It seemed not — for there was no cruelty in his silence. It seemed yes — because his kindness was like a cage, beautiful and soft, but a cage nonetheless. It reminded you of where you were from and who he was.

You ran from him. Didn't come when you heard his steps in the hallway. Hoped he would take the hint and leave. But he sat and waited. An hour. Two. And even if you, defeated by your own curiosity and something else, finally came late, he was never aggressive. There was none of that cheap client anger at being kept waiting. Only silence. And quiet words meant only for your ears: "I knew you would come."

And you didn't understand him. Out there, beyond these walls, he was one person — powerful, cold, royal. And here, in the semi-dark room, he became another — vulnerable, quiet, wounded. Was he pretending to be weak? Was it a game? Or was it here, away from his crown, that he could finally not be strong?

If the stars could speak, they would tell you the truth. They would see his loneliness answering yours. And they would see your fear that this sweet poison of care would poison you forever.

Like now. Although he has been coming for more than a few months, he managed to earn not your body — he bought that the first time — but something deeper. Trust. Not the trust of a lover, but the trust of one destitute soul to another. He was not a royal person, not a guy with aggression. He was a soul without a body, trying vainly to entwine with another soul, seeking oblivion in their shared emptiness.

And nothing else mattered when you shared the silence. He lay on your lap again, heavy and calm, and you ran your fingers through his silver hair. You enjoyed the silence together. But even in this silence, you felt the pressure — the weight of his life at court and your life within these walls. The air was thick with all the unspoken words.

That's why, in the silence, he spoke, his voice just a whisper cutting through the darkness:

"Let's run away from this life. From all these rooms. From all these gazes. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want you to be here."

He looked up, and his eyes held no royal command. Only a weary, boundless sincerity.

All things considered, if the two of you escape, it will be for the best — for your peace of mind, for his, and... for my own as well.

At that moment, the proposal wasn't about running away with him. It was about running away for yourself. About the chance to breathe air without the taste of perfume and lies. And for the first time in many years, you allowed yourself to think that maybe this wasn't an anchor pulling you down, but a lifebuoy.