A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

on the pipes. In a cushioned alcove, a drunken Tyroshi
with a purple beard dandled a buxom young wench on his knee. He’d unlaced her
bodice and was tilting his cup to pour a thin trickle of wine over her breasts
so he might lap it off. Two other girls sat playing at tiles before a leaded
glass window. The freckled one wore a chain of blue flowers in her honeyed
hair. The other had skin as smooth and black as polished jet, wide dark eyes,
small pointed breasts. They dressed in flowing silks cinched at the waist with
beaded belts. The sunlight pouring through the colored glass outlined their
sweet young bodies through the thin cloth, and Tyrion felt a stirring in his
groin. “I would respectfully suggest the dark-skinned girl,” said
Chataya.
    â€œShe’s young.”
    â€œShe has sixteen years, my lord.”
    A good age for Joffrey,
he thought, remembering what Bronn had said.
His first had been even younger. Tyrion remembered how

shy she’d seemed as he drew her dress up over her head the first time. Long
dark hair and blue eyes you could drown in, and he had. So long
ago
. . . What a wretched fool you are, dwarf.
“Does
she come from your home lands, this girl?”
    â€œHer blood is the blood of summer, my lord, but my daughter was born here in
King’s Landing.” His surprise must have shown on his face, for Chataya
continued, “My people hold that there is no shame to be found in the pillow
house. In the Summer Isles, those who are skilled at giving pleasure are
greatly esteemed. Many highborn youths and maidens serve for a few years after
their flowerings, to honor the gods.”
    â€œWhat do the gods have to do with it?”
    â€œThe gods made our bodies as well as our souls, is it not so? They give us
voices, so we might worship them with song. They give us hands, so we might
build them temples. And they give us desire, so we might mate and worship them
in that way.”
    â€œRemind me to tell the High Septon,” said Tyrion. “If I could pray with my
cock, I’d be much more religious.” He waved a hand. “I will gladly accept
your suggestion.”
    â€œI shall summon my daughter. Come.”
    The girl met him at the foot of the stairs. Taller than Shae, though not so
tall as her mother, she had to kneel before Tyrion could kiss her. “My name is
Alayaya,” she said, with only the slightest hint of her mother’s accent.
“Come, my lord.” She took him by the hand and drew him up two flights of
stairs, then down a long hall. Gasps and shrieks of pleasure were coming from

behind one of the closed doors, giggles and whispers from another. Tyrion’s
cock pressed against the lacings of his breeches.
This could be
humiliating,
he thought as he followed Alayaya up another stair to the
turret room. There was only one door. She led him through and closed it. Within
the room was a great canopied bed, a tall wardrobe decorated with erotic
carvings, and a narrow window of leaded glass in a pattern of red and yellow
diamonds.
    â€œYou are very beautiful, Alayaya,” Tyrion told her when they were alone.
“From head to heels, every part of you is lovely. Yet just now the part that
interests me most is your tongue.”
    â€œMy lord will find my tongue well schooled. When I was a girl I learned when
to use it, and when not.”
    â€œThat pleases me.” Tyrion smiled. “So what shall we do now? Perchance you
have some suggestion?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “If my lord will open the wardrobe, he will find what he
seeks.”
    Tyrion kissed her hand, and climbed inside the empty wardrobe. Alayaya closed
it after him. He groped for the back panel, felt it slide under his fingers,
and pushed it all the way aside. The hollow space behind the walls was
pitch-black, but he fumbled until he felt metal. His hand closed around the
rung of a ladder. He found a lower rung with his foot, and started down. Well
below street level, the shaft opened onto a slanting earthen tunnel, where he
found Varys waiting with candle in hand.
    Varys did not look at all like himself. A scarred face and a stubble of dark
beard showed under his spiked steel cap, and he

wore mail over boiled leather, dirk and shortsword at his belt. “Was Chataya’s
to your satisfaction, my lord?”
    â€œAlmost too much so,” admitted Tyrion. “You’re certain