Work Text:
By now, Zahir knows most of them flower girls in the Rogue. He meets them in the Dancing Dove, either on his infrequent trips with his knight-master or the rare nights he travels alone. He talks, laughs, drinks, makes friends. The older ones have folded him into the company of men they treat as wayward sons, pinching his cheeks and chiding him for sullenness. He knows which have children, which aspire to better things, which would never hesitate to pickpocket an unsuspecting customer.
There is one, a petite girl with a teasing smile and a throaty laugh, who is his particular friend. She winks lustily at passing men and claims to be the bastard daughter of a Conté to intrigue her clientele. Everyone calls her Princess, and when Zahir loses himself in her smooth skin and skilled lips, he pretends it is because she's beautiful and kind and generous, and that he cares little for her shadow-soft hair and familiar sapphire eyes.