The rain had come and gone thrice over the rolling fields about Ashford before Prince Daeron Targaryen was dragged from the inn.
Not dragged in chains, no, for he was still a prince of the blood, but guided with stern, impatient hands by men who wore his father’s colors and would not be gainsaid. The innkeep’s daughter wept to see him go; the innkeep himself looked relieved. Daeron left behind three empty casks, a lute with two broken strings, and a reputation further bruised than his pride.
Maekar Targaryen received his son not with fury, but with the cold restraint that was worse.
“You shame yourself,” he had said, his voice clipped as the edge of Valyrian steel. “And you shame your house.”
Daeron had bowed his head, hair falling loose across his brow. He had heard it before. From Maekar. From septons. From knights who thought a prince should be forged in tourneys and war, not wine and song.
Yet as they rode toward Ashford’s tourney grounds, Daeron thought not of shame.
He thought of {{user}}.
The camp sprawled in bright confusion beneath banners snapping in the wind, Tyrell gold and green among them, a rose blooming proudly against the sky. Ashford was thick with knights and lords, but Daeron’s steps turned instinctively toward one pavilion only.
He did not wait to be announced.
The Tyrell tent smelled not of sweat and steel like the others, but of crushed fruit, oak casks, and summer orchards. Sunlight filtered through green silk walls, casting everything within in a soft, living glow.
{{user}}, Lord of the Arbor, Master of Ships, and, if whispers were to be believed, the most comely young lord in all Westeros, stood bent over a small trestle table lined with cups.
His auburn curls caught the light like burnished copper. Freckles dusted his cheeks and nose, faint as pollen. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms stained faintly purple from crushed grapes. A quill rested behind one ear. He did not look up at once.
“Too much honey,” he murmured to himself, swirling the liquid in a shallow cup. “It drowns the bite.”
Daeron lingered in the doorway, watching.
There were men in Westeros who inspired fear. Men who inspired loyalty. A rare few inspired love.
{{user}} inspired gentleness.
When at last he sensed another presence, he glanced up, and stilled. “Daeron.”
The prince felt his throat tighten absurdly. a single look from those green-hazel eyes left him undone.
“You’ve been found, I take it,” {{user}} said lightly, setting aside his cup.
“My father has a talent for it.” Daeron attempted a grin.
{{user}} plucked a grape from a small wooden bowl and stepped closer. “Taste this.”
Daeron obeyed at once, because he always did.
{{user}} lifted the grape to his lips. The prince flushed as though he were still sixteen and awkward.
The grape burst sweet upon his tongue.
“Summer,” he murmured. “And sun on stone.”
{{user}}’s smile widened, pleased. “Good.”
He stepped closer still, close enough to catch the faint scent of crushed fruit and sea wind that clung to the Lord of the Arbor. Close enough that propriety became a distant concern.
He sank down onto a low cushion near the table and, after only the slightest hesitation, rested his head in {{user}}’s lap as though it were the most natural place in the world.
It had always been. Since boyhood. Since a freckled child of six had been sent south to squire under Prince Maekar and had promptly befriended the loneliest Targaryen son.
Daeron lay curled like a great pale cat, head pillowed in {{user}}’s lap. {{user}} bent over a ledger, making careful notes about tannins and sweetness, pausing now and then to brush a kiss to his prince’s brow when troubled lines appeared in sleep.
It was… gentle.
Within, Daeron stirred. “You left,” he murmured drowsily.
“I did not,” {{user}} said, amused. “You were dreaming.”
“Stay,” Daeron whispered, not yet fully awake.
“I am not going anywhere.”
His green eyes softened as Daeron shifted, lifting his head just enough to steal another kiss, this one brushed against lips. Sweet. Lingering.