Saya and the Dragon

So yes. I lived in a barrel. Two months. Wine barrel. Big one. Not the cheap kind—they rolled it out back when the taproom refitted the cellar. Still smelled like sour grapes and spilled secrets. I added cushions. Stolen, obviously. A couple from the tavern benches, one from a passing donkey cart. It was… comfy. Cozy. Okay, it was kind of perfect.

The Dragon rolls his eyes every time I mention it.

“Oh come on,” I say. “It was rent-free. Prime location. No roof leaks. Warm, dry, discreet-ish. Taproom access. Half my clients didn’t even know I lived there. The other half thought it was kinky.”

He mutters something about hygiene. And standards. Ugh. Standards are for people with options.

It was supposed to be temporary. Just a night or two. Then a week. Then I started decorating. Hung a curtain at the front. Bit of ribbon. A copper pan as a mirror. Called it my wine cellar. Told some drunk noble I was in exile from a vineyard dynasty. He cried. Gave me a bracelet. I pawned it for figs.

People don’t get it. It wasn’t just a barrel. It was mine. My own little rotunda of filth and freedom. No roommates. No madam screaming. No chores. Just me, wine fumes, and occasional grunting sounds from over the fence.

Fine. Maybe I got a splinter in an awkward place. Once. Maybe twice.

Still better than that fancy inn room in Thalveth where the bedbugs wore cravats.

I’d take the barrel again. I miss it sometimes. It had character. It had… acoustics. And no one ever asked questions when they saw my bare leg hanging out.

***

Braddo—innkeeper—greasy beard, five teeth, smelled like spilled ale and bad decisions. But fair. Ish. We had an arrangement. He took half. Of everything. Tips, tricks, groans-per-minute bonus—whatever the night yielded. In return, I got the barrel, taproom privileges, and a vague promise not to call the town guard unless someone died loudly.

“Fifty percent?” the Dragon hisses whenever I bring it up, like I sold my soul.

“No,” I say. “Just my cunt. Souls go for much worse margins.”

Besides, Braddo threw in scraps from the kitchen. Stew sometimes. Bread heels. Burnt sausage if the gods were smiling. Once even a roasted quail—leftover from some lordling’s tantrum dinner. I ate it sitting cross-legged in my barrel like a tiny, smug goddess.

And hey—he let me keep the coin if it was handed before the act. Braddo was a pig, not an idiot. He knew post-nut negotiations get messy. Especially in a barrel.

Some of the regulars even thought it was part of the charm. Saya of the Cask. The Taproom Temptress. The Wine-Warmed Wench. Okay, fine, I made some of those up. But I had repeat clients, dammit.

One of them used to knock on the side like he was ordering a drink. I’d slide open the curtain and go, “House special. You want the tasting menu?”

He cried, too. Gods, they always cry.

The Dragon says it’s tragic. I say it’s vintage. Aged in oak. Served warm. Satisfaction not guaranteed but repeat business highly probable.

***

“How did that end?” the Dragon asks, like he doesn’t already know. Like he didn’t smell the smoke from three valleys over.

I snort. “Holy Inquisition. Obviously.”

He winces like I just farted scripture.

“They raided the whole bloody city,” I say. “Big cloaked bastards in sanctified iron. Kicked in doors, threw buckets of blessed water on everything. Arrested half the harlots, flogged the other half, and shut down every inn that served tits with its ale. Braddo nearly choked on his own spit trying to claim he thought I was a laundress.”

He was still wearing my panties on his head at the time. Didn’t help his case.

The Dragon chuckles darkly. “And you?”

“I escaped, duh. Back window. No shoes, no knickers, sack of coin in my teeth. Barrel still warm. Whole place stank of shame and rosemary.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Rosemary?”

“They used it to purify the beds. As if holy herbs can unscrew a mattress.”

I made it three miles before sunrise. Slept in a haystack. Got fleas. Worth it. Saved my life, my purse, and my barrel pride. Never went back. They probably turned the Crooked Spigot into a prayer house or a convent. Or burned it. Honestly, same difference.

The Dragon says it’s pathetic. I say it’s providence. Sometimes the gods throw you a miracle. Sometimes they throw you a bucket of rosemary water and call it even.