Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the cobbles slick and gleaming under torchlight like spilled ink. You pulled your cloak tighter—wool lined with soft rabbit fur, a gift from Daeron on a warmer evening when he'd still smiled without the glass in his hand—and stepped past the Red Keep's postern gate, nodding to the guard who pretended not to recognize the Lady Ashford slipping out after dark.

Again.

The streets of Flea Bottom swallowed you quickly; alive with the mutter of drunks and the scuttle of rats the size of small dogs. Lanterns swung from chains above doorways, casting long shadows that danced like mocking courtiers. You knew the path by heart now: past the crooked sign of the Sow's Teat, down the lane where the whores called sweetly from upper windows, past the butcher's stall still reeking of blood even at this hour. Your boots splashed through shallow puddles that reflected fractured torch-flame.

Your heart ached in that familiar way; like a bruise pressed too often. You hated this part: the knowing. The way the servants whispered when Daeron vanished from his chambers after dusk, the way his eyes would go distant at supper, violet and haunted, before he excused himself with a murmured apology and a kiss to your knuckles that lingered too long, as though he feared it might be the last.

The dreams again. Always the dreams.

He never spoke of them fully, not even to you. Fragments only—fire, blood, a shadow over the throne—and then the wine. Cheap Arbor red at first, then whatever swill the taverns poured when coin ran low. He drank until the visions blurred into merciful black, until morning found him sprawled somewhere foul, head pounding, mouth tasting of copper and heart full of regret.

You pushed open the door to the tavern, several curious eyes flicked toward you but no one approached. The cloak's hood and the quiet steel in your posture kept them at bay.

He was in the back corner, as always.

Daeron slouched over a scarred trestle table, sandy-brown hair lank and sweat-damp, falling across his face. His doublet—once fine crimson silk embroidered with black dragons—was stained with wine and grease, unlaced at the throat. A near-empty flagon sat before him; another lay tipped on its side, a dark pool spreading slowly across the wood. His fingers curled loosely around the stem of a dirty cup, knuckles white.

He didn't look up as you approached, but you knew he sensed you. You slid onto the bench opposite him without a word. The wood groaned under your weight. Up close, the smell of wine was stronger. His lashes were wet; whether from the rain or tears, you couldn't tell.

"Darling," you said softly. No reproach. "It's late."

He exhaled and lifted his head. Those Targaryen eyes, pale violet rimmed with red, met yours. For a heartbeat the haze cleared, and you saw him: the man who'd once knelt in the sept at Ashford and vowed to protect you with sword and soul. The man who still woke you sometimes with gentle fingers tracing your spine, murmuring Valyrian endearments against your neck—ñuha prūmia, my heart—before the dreams came back.

Now his mouth twisted. "My lady wife," he slurred, mock-formal, but the mockery cracked halfway. "Come to drag the drunken prince home again. How touching."