Page 36 of The War of Four Winters

"So, brother mine," he said, his words only slightly slurred despite the impressive amount of alcohol he'd consumed, "what's it like to fuck an elven king? I've sampled elven pleasures before, but royalty?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "That's a conquest even beyond my considerable achievements."

I choked on my drink, caught between offense and laughter. "That's... not a proper diplomatic question."

"We're far past diplomacy," he gestured at the empty bottles littering the table. "We're blood now. Blood deserves truth."

The alcohol had loosened my tongue enough that I found myself answering. "He's... passionate. Intense. Nothing like the cold, distant creature I expected when I first met him." I stared into my cup, memories warming me more than the spirits. "There's fire beneath all that royal composure."

Tariq nodded appreciatively. "The controlled ones always burn hottest in private. It's the same in the Savarran courts."

"Speaking from experience?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Extensive experience." His smile was wicked. "I've warmed the beds of three minor Savarran lords, two merchant princes, and a temple priestess who did this thing with her tongue that I'm certain violated several religious doctrines."

I laughed despite myself. "Quite the collection of conquests."

"And that was just during the last spring festival." He refilled our cups with ease despite his intoxication. "Back home, they tried to use me as breeding stock, you know. Even as a bastard, royal blood has value. They wanted to match me with some minor lordling's daughter to strengthen political alliances."

"You escaped to the sea instead?" I guessed.

"Precisely." He raised his cup in a mock toast. "No chains for me, golden or otherwise. I refused to be traded like currency, a stud to improve someone else's bloodline."

"I can understand that," I said quietly, thinking of my own journey from slave to consort.

"It wasn't the sex that bothered me," Tariq continued, sprawling more comfortably in his chair. "Pussy is as good as dick to me, as long as there's something interesting on the menu. It was the lack of choice that rankled. Not to mention the assassination attempts. It was all very boring.”

"Your romantic life sounds... dangerous," I observed.

"The best ones always are." His golden eyes glinted with mischief. "And yours? The elven king can't be your only tale worth telling."

I laughed, feeling the weight of years and memories shift under the influence of Savarran spirits. "Before Ruith, there was Torrin—the head of my personal guard. We kept it discreet, but it was... significant. Lasted nearly two years."

"Hmm," Tariq studied me through half-lidded eyes. "So you only pursue men, then? No women at all?"

I shrugged, not feeling any need to dissemble through the haze of alcohol. "I've tried. Just never felt right."

"That must have made life in Ostovan difficult," he observed with surprising insight. "Even with Father's tolerance for such things, the noble houses always considered it... what was their charming phrase? 'A phase of immature affection'?" He rolled his eyes. "As if men were expected to simply grow out of it and fulfill their duty to produce heirs."

"Exactly that," I confirmed, surprised by his understanding. "Father never pressured me directly, but the whispers at court were constant. Suggestions of suitable matches, concerned questions about continuing the family line."

"Savarra is different," Tariq said, refilling our cups. "Love is free there. Men marry men, women marry women, those who are neither nor both marry as they please." He gestured expansively, spilling drops of liquor onto the table. "I've attended ceremonies with three husbands and two wives, all married to each other in a great circular union. The celebrations lasted a week."

"That sounds..." I searched for the right word through my alcohol-fogged mind. "Liberating."

"It is," he agreed emphatically. "Though with freedom comes complexity. You should see the inheritance disputes. They’re more interesting than the funerals." He laughed, then grew more serious. "Is your elven king good to you? Truly?"

The question caught me off guard with its genuine concern. "He is. Though our beginning was... complicated."

"The slave collar," Tariq nodded. "You mentioned it earlier."

"It started there," I acknowledged. "But we've moved beyond that. Found something... equal." The alcohol made it easier to speak of things I rarely articulated, even to myself. "He sees me. Not just as a body or a political statement, but as myself."

"Then he's worthy of you," Tariq declared with the solemn certainty of the truly intoxicated. "Though I reserve the right to a ceremonial assassination attempt should that ever change. Nothing fatal, of course. Perhaps just a minor poisoning or decorative stabbing."

The absurdity of this pirate prince threatening the elven king in defense of my honor made me laugh until tears streamed down my face. Tariq joined in, and soon we were both howling, slapping the table and gasping for breath.

Sometime during this musical exchange, Bash decided I was acceptable company. The dragon abandoned Tariq's shoulder to investigate me, climbing my arm with surprising dexterity before settling around my neck like a living collar.

"She likes you," Tariq remarked, looking genuinely surprised. "She doesn't usually warm to strangers so quickly."

---