Sex Addict in Flea Bottom (SI)

The Tavern air hung thick with tension as Lyra's last haunting note faded into silence. Her throat burned, parched from the intensity of her performance. She reached for her cup of water, gulping greedily as sweat glistened on her neck. The entire royal retinue sat in stunned silence, their faces illuminated by flickering candlelight.

King Robert leaned forward in his chair, his massive frame creaking the wood beneath him. "By the gods, girl. What was that song called?" His voice was surprisingly gentle for such a large man.

Lyra lowered her cup, wiping her mouth with trembling fingers. "Wicked Game, Your Grace. Thomas wrote it." Her eyes flickered to where Thomas stood in the shadows near the kitchen.

"Thomas wrote that?" Robert's eyebrows shot up. He took a long pull from his wine. "First he feeds us better than half the cooks in the Red Keep, now I find he writes songs that could make the Maiden herself weep." He fixed his intense gaze on Lyra. "You could sing at court, girl. The pay would be good, and you'd never want for anything."

Lyra's fingers tightened around her cup. "You honor me beyond words, Your Grace. But..." She glanced at Thomas again, a small smile playing at her lips. "My place is here, with Thomas."

Robert followed her gaze, his beard twitching with amusement. "Speaking of your Thomas - where is that clever bastard? The man who's been feeding us these strange delicacies all night?"

Thomas emerged from the shadows, his cooking whites still spotted with various sauces. He gave a somewhat awkward bow, conscious of the dozens of noble eyes now fixed upon him.

"Your food..." Robert gestured expansively at the demolished plates before him. "I've never tasted its like. That sweet-savory paste you call 'peanut butter' - brilliant. The Red Keep needs a cook like you. What say you?"

Thomas felt his mouth go dry. His eyes darted around the table, taking in the various reactions. Cersei's face was a mask of barely concealed contempt, her perfect features twisted into what could charitably be called a sneer. Not quite a death glare, Thomas thought, but certainly enough venom to make a man's blood run cold.

Before he could respond, a thin-faced courtier with an absurdly pointed beard spoke up. "Your Grace honors him with such an offer! Surely he doesn't mean to keep us waiting for an answer?" The man's voice dripped with indignation.

Thomas cleared his throat. "My deepest thanks, Your Grace, but... perhaps someone of my humble origins shouldn't presume to cook for kings and lords." He tried to keep his voice steady. "Being born in Flea Bottom-"

The reaction was immediate. Faces that moments ago had been contentedly patting full bellies now twisted with disgust. Whispers erupted around the table - "Flea Bottom?" "We've been eating food prepared by..." "How dare he..."

Thomas felt heat rise in his chest. These pompous shits had been praising his cooking minutes ago, practically licking their plates clean. Now they acted like he'd served them rat droppings. He clenched his fists, forcing down the anger.

Not everyone seemed repulsed. Robert himself appeared unmoved by the revelation, as did a few others - including, surprisingly, the queen's dwarf brother who simply looked amused by the whole spectacle.

"Enough!" Robert's voice boomed through the tavern. "I'll send someone in two days' time. Think on it properly." He fixed Thomas with a surprisingly shrewd look. "If you choose to stay here, we'll arrange a royal seal of approval for your establishment - after a thorough inspection, mind you. And you can keep your clever little bridge."

"You're too kind, Your Grace." Thomas bowed deeply, relief flooding through him.

The royal party soon departed, Gold Cloaks laying wooden planks across the muddy streets to ease their passage back to the Red Keep. As soon as they were gone, Thomas collapsed into a chair, his legs finally giving out.

Lyra immediately moved behind him, her skilled fingers finding the knots of tension in his shoulders. "Breathe, love," she murmured, working at a particularly tight spot. "It's over now."

"Fuck me," Thomas groaned, leaning into her touch. "Did that really just happen? Did I really just tell the king of the Seven Kingdoms to... wait?"

Marla appeared with three cups and a bottle of their strongest spirits. "You did," she confirmed, pouring generous measures. "And lived to tell about it. Though I thought that yellow-haired bitch was going to have you flogged just for existing."

Thomas knocked back his drink in one go, relishing the burn. His mind raced with the knowledge of what was to come - food riots, war, death. The Red Keep would be one of the few safe places when everything went to hell. But he couldn't tell them that. Couldn't explain how he knew. "Should we do it? Take the offer?" He looked between the two women who'd become his family.

Lyra's fingers stilled on his shoulders. "The Red Keep..." She sat beside him, taking her own cup. "It's a dangerous place, from what I hear. Full of schemes and secrets."

"And we're doing well here," Marla added. "The bridge brings steady coin, and now with possible royal approval..."

Thomas nodded, though his stomach churned with anxiety. He knew they were right about the Red Keep's dangers - one wrong move among the vipers of court would mean death. But the streets would become just as deadly soon enough. If only there was a way to ensure Robert's survival... but how could he protect a king without raising suspicion?

"What about a compromise?" Lyra suggested, interrupting his troubled thoughts.

"What kind of compromise?"

"Tell whoever comes in two days that we need time. A few months to see how the tavern does with royal approval. We can always accept later if we change our minds."

Thomas mulled it over, absently running his fingers through Lyra's hair. It wasn't a bad plan. Keep their options open, build up coin while they could. "That... that could work," he agreed, though privately he wondered if they'd have months before everything fell apart.

"We could even look at expanding," Marla offered. "Maybe open another location if the royal seal brings in more custom."

Thomas forced a smile, not voicing his doubts about the city's future. "One thing at a time. Let's see what this inspection brings first."

They sat in contemplative silence, passing the bottle between them. Finally, exhaustion began to set in - the stress of hosting royalty, the weight of decisions to be made.

"Come to bed," Lyra murmured in his ear. "Whatever we decide can wait until tomorrow."

Thomas nodded, suddenly aware of how bone-tired he was. The familiar ache of his constant arousal stirred at Lyra's closeness, but even that was muted by exhaustion.

"Help me clean up first?" Marla asked, gesturing at the remains of the royal feast.

"Leave it," Thomas decided. "Just this once. We all need sleep more than a clean tavern right now."

They made their way upstairs, supporting each other. Thomas's mind was still racing with possibilities, with the knowledge of what was coming. The Red Keep would be safer, yes, but also more dangerous in its own way. And Robert... if the king died, everything would collapse. But how could a simple cook prevent that?

As he drifted off to sleep, Lyra's warm body curled against his, images flashed through his mind - Robert Baratheon dying from a boar's tusks, the city burning with green fire, blood running in the streets of King's Landing. He woke several times in a cold sweat, only Lyra's steady breathing beside him anchoring him to the present.

The future was coming, whether they were ready or not. The only question was where they would be when it arrived, and whether Thomas could find a way to change what he knew was coming without revealing how he knew.

The next morning came too soon, sunlight streaming through the tavern's warped windows. Thomas lay awake, Lyra still sleeping soundly beside him. His head throbbed from last night's drinks, but his mind was clearer. The immediate problem wasn't just the king's offer - it was making it through today's service after hosting royalty.

Word would spread. The tavern would be packed.

He carefully extracted himself from Lyra's embrace, pausing to watch her curl into the warm spot he'd left. Dark circles shadowed her eyes - she'd sung her heart out last night, and her voice would need rest.

Downstairs, he found Marla already at work, clearing the previous night's mess. She looked up as he entered, her face drawn with fatigue.

"You should've woken me," he said, immediately moving to help.

"Needed time to think," she replied, straightening up. "And you needed sleep. You were tossing and turning half the night."

Thomas grunted, focusing on the tasks ahead. "We should prepare for a crowd today. News travels fast in this city."

"Already has," Marla nodded toward the window. Outside, people were gathering despite the early hour. "Been turning them away until we're properly open."

The day continued in a blur of orders, coins, and endless questions about the royal visit. By afternoon, Thomas's arms ached from cooking, and he'd run out of peanut butter twice. But the coin box was heavier than it had ever been.

As the sun began to set, the crowd finally thinned. Thomas stepped out of the kitchen for the first time in hours, collapsing into a chair beside Lyra, who was nursing a cup of honey-laced tea.

"We need more help," he said flatly. "If it's going to be like this after the royal seal..."

"Already ahead of you," Marla joined them, counting the day's takings. "My cousin's girl needs work. She's quick and honest."

A commotion outside caught their attention. The door burst open, revealing a Gold Cloak - not one of their usual visitors, but one of the better-dressed officers.

"Message from the Red Keep," he announced, producing a sealed scroll. "The inspection will take place tomorrow at midday. Have everything ready." He dropped the scroll on a nearby table and left without waiting for a response.

Thomas picked up the scroll, breaking the seal. His lips quirked into a small smile as he read. Just a standard kitchen inspection - checking cleanliness, food quality, preparation methods. He almost wanted to laugh. If there was one thing he knew beyond any doubt, it was that his kitchen would pass any inspection they could throw at him.

"Well?" Lyra asked, noting his expression.

"Just the Chief Steward coming to check the kitchen," he said, relaxing for the first time since the royal visit. "Making sure we're up to royal standards."

"Is that all?" Marla raised an eyebrow. "The way you keep this place, we could feed the High Septon himself."

Thomas nodded, remembering his obsessive cleaning routines that had initially confused his medieval companions. His knowledge of germ theory and food safety might seem strange here, but it meant his kitchen was probably the cleanest in all of Westeros. Every surface was scrubbed daily with boiling water and vinegar. All meat was stored separately and cooked thoroughly. He even had strict hand-washing rules for everyone who entered his kitchen.

"Still," he stood, stretching. "Let's give everything an extra scrub tonight. Make sure it shines for tomorrow."

As they began cleaning, Thomas felt oddly calm. This, at least, was one challenge he knew he could handle. Whatever else the future might hold, whatever dangers might come, tomorrow's inspection would not be among them.

His medieval competitors might have royal connections or fancy imported spices, but none of them had his understanding of food safety and hygiene. The Chief Steward would find nothing to criticize - of that, he was certain.

Now if only all their problems could be solved with soap and boiling water.