“So you genuinely have no clue how old you are?” Tyrion asked, slightly bemused. It made sense, he supposed, but it wasn’t a thing he’d given any real thought about.
“I’ve been with Yezzan for twelve years, next moon.” she said softly. “Before that, a pleasure house. And before that…” a small frown crossed her forehead. “I don’t remember. Why do you care how old I am though?”
He shrugged. He’d been making conversation, mostly. Sweets had a sardonic wit which was the equal of his own, and it kept his mind sharp. “I was afraid I’d missed your name day,” he replied.
“Were you planning on getting me something?” she asked with a sarcastic smile.
“When I come into my inheritance I’ll buy you whatever you desire.”
“What do you know of what I desire?” she asked, looking amused.
Tyrion’s felt himself grin, for she didn’t seem remotely repulsed by what it did to his scars. Such was the life of a slave who lived in grotesquery, he supposed. She must be well accustomed to ugliness. “Other than me?” he japed and she rolled her pretty purple eyes.
“Other than you” she said, a smirk upon her face, sitting back with folded arms, awaiting his answer. That had been his punch line though, and he wasn’t sure how to follow it, except perhaps with sincerity.
“I know what I’d get you” he said, meeting her gaze. “I’d give you silence.”
Her fingers rose, tracing the line of her collar, of lighter weight than his own perhaps, but still no less heavy. “I think I might like that.” She mused and for a moment her features softened and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It only lasted an instant though and her prettiness soon resumed its icy, dispassionate quality and she grew distant once more. “When you come into your inheritance” she added with a cold laugh.