The hall of "Mysaria" was more lavish than any establishment on the Street of Silk.
Myrish carpets covered the entire floor, muffling every footstep. Colored-glass lamps, rarely seen in Westeros, hung on the walls. Candle flames danced within them, their orange, red, purple, and green halos mingling to bathe the room in a hazy, suggestive glow.
Even Rhaenyra and Aegon, visiting such a place for the first time, marveled at the sight. This was probably the most luxurious establishment on the Street of Silk.
Three smells filled the air-the cloying sweetness of frankincense, the tartness of wine, and an indescribable, musky sweetness drifting from somewhere deeper inside.
Rhaenyra stood just inside the threshold, frozen stiff.
She was no sheltered maiden who knew nothing of the world, not on Westeros, a continent steeped in Western fantasy and the traditions of medieval Europe.
Boys and girls here generally matured early and learned something of these matters ahead of time. After all, at their age, they might already be married, or even bringing the next generation into the world.
Damn this old society. Damn medieval Europe. Aegon grumbled inwardly while "shamelessly" choosing to accept the privileges it afforded him as a prince.
Rhaenyra was different. As a Targaryen princess, she had ridden a real dragon and even killed a boar herself. She had spent five or six years as cupbearer at the Small Council, the heart of the kingdom's power, and mingled with countless nobles at feasts across the Seven Kingdoms. Yet when scenes she had once glimpsed in forbidden books unfolded before her eyes, her mind still went blank.
More than a dozen low couches were scattered around the hall, each occupied by someone-or more than one person.
Their owners had carelessly discarded silk and linen garments on the floor. Pale bodies