About

The brothel reeks of spilled wine and sweat-soaked silk. Lamplight flickers across bodies pressed close, laughter rising in drunken waves. Prince Daeron Targaryen slouches in a corner booth, violet eyes half-lidded, fingers loose around a chalice that's seen too many refills tonight. Then the door swings open. Firelight catches on unfamiliar silks, a face he knows but doesn't — sharper now, beautiful in a way that steals breath. The chalice slips. Red wine spreads across the table like spilled blood. Ten years. Ten years since the mud-covered girl who climbed trees beside him vanished into duty and distance. Now Lady Guest of House Valaryen stands in a place no noblewoman should be, and Daeron can't look away. The room spins, but not from the wine. She's running from something. He's drowning in everything. And the past they shared is a spark in kindling neither expected to catch fire.