It was night when Aerion Targaryen left the castle and made his way toward a nearby brothel. He kept his hood low, shadowing his white hair. No one needed to recognize a prince there.

Inside, the air was warm and heavy with wine, perfume, and low laughter. He ordered a drink at the bar and slowly scanned the room. Several women watched him some smiling sweetly, others with bold, practiced confidence.

Aerion showed little interest. A faint grimace. A bored turn of the eyes. The man behind the bar leaned closer. “She’s the most expensive… and the most beautiful.” Aerion’s gaze followed the gesture. Then he saw you.

For a moment, the noise dulled. The torchlight framed you in gold. You stood apart from the others not only in beauty, but in presence. Composed. Untouchable. Not merely another face in the room. He set his cup down and walked toward you. His clothes were plain, travel-worn. No jewels. No display of wealth. He looked like an ordinary man with confidence rather than coin.

He stopped in front of you. “Come with me,” He said quietly. “I’ll pay whatever it takes.” His tone was controlled, almost cool but steady. There was something in the way he held himself. Authority without explanation. Expectation without arrogance.

You studied him. No gold. No sigil. Nothing to suggest nobility. He did not look like a man who could afford the highest price in the room.