Chapter 19

Chapter nineteen: Long Day, Cold Night

Thomas wiped his brow with the back of his hand, clearing the last of the tables as the sun peeked over the horizon. The tavern was quiet, still soaked in the silence of early morning, and the chairs were all turned up on their tables, waiting for the inevitable foot traffic later in the day. The girls—Marla, Lyra, and her daughters—were still upstairs, no doubt tangled in the sheets, deep in sleep. He worked slowly, keeping his hands busy, waiting for them to wake up and take over.

Cleaning had become second nature by now—something soothing in the repetition of wiping down the wooden surfaces, feeling the grain under his fingertips. Each scuff, each dent in the tables told a story. Mostly, they were stories of drunken slaps and clumsy falls, but some were more violent—quick flashes of fists and broken teeth. Those left marks deeper than the wood.

Once the place was tidied, Thomas moved to the kitchen. He prepped breakfast with simple efficiency, keeping things basic but satisfying: roasted bread and peanut butter. The peanuts had been a mission all on their own—hours spent under the blistering sun, weaving through the sweaty chaos of the King's Landing markets to find the damn things. Who knew peanuts were so rare in Westeros? Kings Landing folk seemed to think anything grown underground was too "peasant" for them. A laughable thought considering the rats the poor bastards in Flea Bottom had to choke down just to stay alive.

Thomas cracked a smile, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. The Andals, with their high-minded ideas about purity, had a real hatred for anything to do with the earth—roots, tubers, peanuts. They hated it all. Apparently, because the First Men ate it, it was deemed "unclean." Just another reason to hate the Seven, he mused, though it wasn't something he'd say aloud unless he wanted his head separated from his shoulders. He kept that hatred locked away, deep in his heart, where no one could take it from him.

The smell of roasted bread and peanuts soon filled the air, warm and inviting. It wasn't long before the thumping of feet on the stairs signaled the arrival of the girls, stumbling down with bed hair and sleepy eyes, drawn to the kitchen by the scent of breakfast. Thomas kept his roasted bread and peanut butter hidden, knowing that if they got wind of it, there wouldn't be a scrap left for him. He'd barely sat down when Lyra lunged for his plate, all giggles and mischief, but he was quicker, swiping it out of her reach, sending her sprawling into a chair with a loud huff.

"Make your own if you're hungry," he told her, biting into his breakfast with exaggerated satisfaction.

Lyra groaned, leaning back in her chair, her hair sticking up in all directions. "I don't know how," she whined, slumping dramatically against the table.

"Then buy some from the market," Thomas replied, not taking his eyes off his plate as he enjoyed the little victory. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she groaned again, this time slumping her face onto the table with a loud, theatrical thud.

Thomas chuckled to himself, savoring the moment, but it didn't last long. Marla appeared soon after, quicker than he expected, and stole a bite from his plate before he could stop her. She grinned around the mouthful of bread and peanut butter as he protested, but it was already too late.

"You'll pay for that," Thomas muttered, though his heart wasn't in the threat. He tried to protect what was left of his breakfast, but by the time Marla's daughters, Anna and Kyra, came tumbling down the stairs, the secret stash was blown wide open. They'd found the roasted bread and the peanut butter and were waving the nearly empty jar in Marla's face.

Marla, as always, was quick to take control of the situation. She inspected the jar, sniffed the contents, and before Thomas could even begin to protest, she was spreading what remained onto slices of bread for the girls. Lyra, having given up on trying to steal his food, slumped back into her chair with a pout.

"Peanut butter?" Marla asked, her brows raising as she handed the makeshift sandwiches to her daughters.

"Yeah," Thomas sighed, watching with a mixture of annoyance and resignation as the girls took enthusiastic bites, their faces lighting up at the taste. "I made it myself."

The moment the words left his mouth, both Marla and Lyra froze, their faces paling. Lyra was the first to gag, pushing her sandwich away as if it had suddenly turned to poison.

"I don't mind your weird fetishes, but I'm not getting involved with food in 'em," Lyra groaned, shooting him a disgusted look. She wiped her mouth dramatically, as if she'd just eaten dirt.

Marla gave her a sharp smack on the back of the head, scolding her for speaking like that in front of the children, but there was no hiding the unease in her own expression. "You made it? Where? In dirt?" she asked, setting her own sandwich aside as well.

Thomas rolled his eyes, slamming his plate down on the table in frustration. "You've all been eating it happily until now! But because I said I made it, suddenly it's dirty?"

They exchanged a look before glancing back at the jar of peanut butter, as though it had personally insulted them. "It's not right, is all. The Seven say things that grow underground are unclean," Marla explained weakly, though it was clear she wasn't fully convinced herself.

Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples as he got up from the table. He disappeared into the pantry and came back with a handful of peanuts, dumping them unceremoniously onto the table in front of them. "Look," he said, grabbing a bowl of water. He washed the peanuts under their noses, letting them see the dirt slide off. Then, with deliberate movements, he cracked open one of the shells, showing them the dry, clean nut inside. "Tell me how something that's not wet after you wash it is still dirty."

Marla and Lyra exchanged another glance before giving a half-hearted "ooo" in response to his logic. But the tension lingered, and they both mumbled something about the Seven declaring underground food impure centuries ago.

Thomas snorted, shaking his head. "The Seven haven't spoken in two hundred years. Why is it every time they change the rules, it's because some fat septon said so?"

The women stared at him, wide-eyed, shocked by the bluntness of his words. "Are you one of those heathens?" Lyra whispered, leaning in as if the question alone might bring the wrath of the gods down on them.

Thomas threw his hands up in frustration. "You want to believe in the Seven, fine, but don't use it to justify nonsense." He turned on his heel and stalked toward the kitchen. "Clean the damn bathroom if you're so concerned about dirt," he called over his shoulder.

The tension hung in the air for a moment longer, but eventually, they shrugged it off and got back to the routine.

It was late afternoon by the time the tavern began to stir with life again. A few regulars had trickled in, and Thomas was in full motion, running the place like clockwork. He'd given Marla control of the kitchen for the day, confident she could handle it with everything he'd taught her. Lyra's voice carried through the air, soft and lilting, as the musicians played a gentle tune behind her. The mood in the tavern was peaceful—couples sat close together, whispering sweet nothings, while the single patrons nursed their drinks in quiet contentment.

But, as always, there was the one rowdy group. Laughter erupted from the corner table as the men slapped each other on the back, their boisterous voices rising above the calm atmosphere. They weren't causing trouble yet, but their volume was getting close to it. Thomas kept an eye on them but didn't intervene. Rowdy or not, they were paying customers, and that was what kept the tavern running.

His attention shifted when he noticed a man sitting alone in the far corner, tucked away in the shadows. There was something off about him—his cloak pulled low over his face, his posture too rigid for someone trying to relax. Thomas approached him, keeping his voice neutral, professional. "What can I get you?"

The man didn't look up but muttered, "Broth and wine."

Thomas nodded, heading to the kitchen and returning with the requested items. But just as he placed the wine on the table, the man knocked it over, spilling the entire contents across Thomas's chest. The cold liquid soaked into his shirt, and he froze, clenching his jaw to keep from lashing out.

He was about to tell the bastard off when he noticed the gold cloak peeking out from beneath the man's tattered cloak. A Goldcloak. Thomas swallowed hard, wiping the wine from his face, his temper simmering just beneath the surface. "Is there a problem?" he asked, his voice tight.

The Goldcloak sneered, his eyes cold and arrogant. "Does there have to be?"

Thomas forced a smile, keeping his tone calm. "No. There doesn't have to be."

The man smirked and tapped his empty cup. "More wine. More food."

Thomas did as he was told, serving him throughout the evening. Each time the Goldcloak finished his meal or drained his cup, he called for more, pushing the limits of Thomas's patience. By the end of the night, when it came time to settle the bill, the Goldcloak looked him dead in the eye and said, "What?"

Thomas repeated the amount, his fists clenching at his sides.

The man slammed his fist on the table, shouting louder this time. "What?!"

Thomas bit his tongue, nodding as he forced the words through gritted teeth. "Thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed your stay."

The Goldcloak grunted, standing to leave without paying a single copper. Thomas watched him go, his jaw tight with barely contained fury.

Lyra sidled up beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. "You alright?"

Thomas let out a heavy sigh, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We've come far from Flea Bottom, but it feels like we had more power when we were back there."

She frowned, looking up at him. "Why didn't you hit him?"

"He's a Goldcloak. Would've found a way to screw us over later," Thomas muttered.

Lyra gave a small nod, understanding. After a moment, she leaned closer, her voice soft. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

He was about to agree when she added, "It's not a safe day."

Thomas groaned, the tension in his body turning to frustration. He asked Marla the same question, but she shook her head, giving him the same answer.

Frustration boiled over, and he left the tavern, heading straight for the brothel. When he arrived, the matron gave him a sly smile, clearly recognizing the storm brewing in his eyes. "You're in luck," she said, her voice smooth. "Ros is still available." Without a word, Thomas handed over the coin.

Thomas could still feel the tension simmering under his skin when he entered the room, his muscles tight, his jaw clenched. He'd barely gotten Ros's name out to the matron before he was led back to the dim, private room where she waited.

Ros was already lounging on the bed, her back propped up against the headboard, a lazy smile curling her lips. Her red hair was a wild tangle over her shoulders, her breasts spilling slightly over the tight bodice of her dress. It was like she already knew what kind of night he'd had, the way she watched him with those sharp green eyes, amused and patient, like she was waiting for him to come undone.

"Long night?" she asked, her voice teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something softer, more knowing.

Thomas grunted, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He didn't answer, just watched her for a moment, his eyes roaming over her, lingering on the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell with her breath. The way they strained against the fabric of her dress, threatening to spill free, sent a new rush of heat through him, his hands already itching to touch her, to take what he wanted.

Ros's eyes followed his gaze, and she let out a small, knowing laugh, her fingers trailing lazily down the front of her dress. "You gonna keep staring or are you going to do something about it?" she asked, her voice low, challenging.

That snapped something in him. He didn't need more than that.

Thomas closed the distance between them in two long strides, his hands immediately reaching for the neckline of her dress. He tugged it down roughly, exposing the soft curve of her breasts, pale and full, her nipples already hard. Ros gasped as the cool air hit her skin, but her smile widened, her eyes flashing with anticipation.

His hands were on her immediately, grabbing her breasts, squeezing them firmly, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow, deliberate circles. Ros moaned, her head tilting back against the headboard, her eyes fluttering shut as she arched her back, pushing her chest further into his hands.

"Fuck, you're tense," she murmured, her breath hitching as his fingers pinched at her nipples, tugging lightly. "You need this, don't you?"

Thomas didn't answer. He couldn't. His attention was locked on her breasts, the way they felt in his hands, warm and soft, the way her body reacted with every little touch. He leaned down, his mouth finding one of her nipples, sucking it into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Ros let out a low moan, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there as he sucked harder, his tongue flicking against her nipple, making her squirm beneath him.

"Shit, that's good," she groaned, her voice breathy and strained as she pushed her chest further against his face. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, her back arching off the bed. "You always know what to do with these," she added with a breathless laugh, her voice hitching as he switched to her other breast, giving it the same rough, eager attention.

Thomas wasn't thinking clearly anymore, his focus entirely on the feeling of her breasts in his hands, the way her nipples hardened under his tongue, the way her breath hitched every time he sucked, her moans growing louder, more desperate.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. Ros's eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. "You look good like this," he muttered, his voice rough, strained. He tugged her dress lower, pulling it down past her waist, exposing her completely. Her breasts bounced free, and he couldn't help but grab them again, squeezing them roughly, feeling the weight of them in his hands.

Ros smirked, her breath shaky as she let her hands fall to his shoulders. "If you like 'em so much, why don't you spend the whole night down there?" she teased, her hips shifting slightly as she spread her legs for him. "Maybe that'll take the edge off."

Thomas growled low in his throat, leaning back in to press his mouth to her breasts, licking a trail between them before sucking one of her nipples into his mouth again. He wasn't gentle—there was no point in being gentle. Ros didn't want gentle. She wanted him rough, wanted him to use her, to fuck her like he couldn't get enough of her. And right now, he couldn't.

His hands gripped her waist, pulling her down onto the bed as he straddled her, his mouth still locked on her chest, biting, sucking, tasting every inch of her. Her breasts bounced with every movement, and he couldn't get enough of it—the way they felt under his hands, the way she moaned when he squeezed them harder, the way her nipples hardened under his tongue.

Ros gasped, her hands still in his hair, pulling him closer as her hips bucked against him. "You want more, don't you?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she squirmed beneath him. "You need to fuck me."

Thomas grunted in response, his mouth still full of her breast, but he shifted, his hand sliding down between her legs. She was already soaked, her thighs slick with arousal, and he groaned at the feeling of her wetness on his fingers.

He didn't bother with any more teasing. He pulled away from her breasts, flipping her onto her back and spreading her legs wide. Ros let out a breathless laugh, her eyes gleaming with excitement as he positioned himself between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

"Go on, then," she said, her voice low, husky. "Take what you want."

And Thomas did. He slammed into her, hard and fast, the stretch of him filling her completely in one sharp thrust. Ros cried out, her back arching off the bed as her hands fisted in the sheets, her breasts bouncing with every rough movement. He didn't let up, didn't slow down. He fucked her hard, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her back onto him with every thrust, the wet sounds of their bodies meeting filling the room.

Ros moaned louder, her legs wrapping around his waist as she bucked her hips up to meet his, her hands reaching up to grab her own breasts, squeezing them as she writhed beneath him. "Fuck, yes," she gasped, her eyes rolling back as she pinched her own nipples, her voice breaking with every thrust. "Harder."

Thomas didn't need to be told twice. He grunted, his pace growing faster, rougher, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Her breasts bounced wildly with every thrust, and he couldn't stop watching, couldn't stop reaching down to grab them, feeling the soft weight of them in his hands as he fucked her harder, faster.

Ros's moans turned into desperate, breathy cries, her hands clutching at her breasts as her body tensed, her thighs squeezing around him. She was close—he could feel it in the way she clenched around him, the way her body trembled beneath him.

"Come on," he growled, leaning down to suck one of her nipples into his mouth again, his thrusts growing erratic as he felt his own release building. "Come for me."

That was all it took. Ros cried out, her body arching off the bed as she came, her thighs trembling around his waist, her nails digging into her own skin as the orgasm tore through her. Thomas groaned, feeling her tighten around him, and with one final thrust, he came too, spilling into her as his body tensed, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her breast as he rode out his release.

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies still tangled together, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the room. Thomas didn't pull away, didn't move, just stayed there, his face buried against her chest, his hands still gripping her hips.

Ros was the first to break the silence, her voice breathless, amused. "You really do have a thing for my tits, don't you?"

Thomas chuckled, his breath warm against her skin as he pressed a lazy kiss to her breast. "Can you blame me?"

Ros laughed softly, her fingers running through his hair as she sighed, content. "No," she admitted, her voice low, satisfied. "I can't."

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the aftermath, but eventually, Thomas pulled away, rolling onto his back beside her, his chest still heaving as he caught his breath. Ros stretched beside him, her body still humming with the lingering pleasure, a small smile playing on her lips as she closed her eyes.

"I knew you'd be back," she murmured, her voice soft, teasing. "You will always come back."

Thomas didn't respond, but she was right. He always came back.

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