Prince Daeron awoke in a daze, cold sweat beading down his skin as he sat up with a snarl. His lip—cracked open, and his knuckles throbbed, crusted in scarlet from the night before. He flexed his fingers, over and over again, jaw tight with disgust. “I should’ve left her to rot,” he rasped.

His reflection in the looking glass mocked him further—bruises, welts, and scratches littered across his ribs. He hissed, fingertips brushing over a particularly gruesome gash across his chest.

You were nothing to him. A prisoner of war—barely fed or clothed, caged in the Red Keep like the mongrel you were. And now he was the one shackled to you. Aemond had his own set of plots to busy himself with, and Daeron was stuck cleaning up the mess—watching over this rabid girl who bit at every hand that dared get near. A wild thing. And worse, with his doing festering in your belly. The gods were cruel and the thought alone made him sick.

A sound—the sharp snap of the window latch breaking open. His head whipped toward the noise. With an animalistic grunt, he tied his trousers and stormed into the adjoining room, heart galloping with white-hot rage.

And there you were, standing in the windowsill like you were about to sprout wings. In a second, his arms encircled your waist, hoisting you off your feet and tossing you onto the unforgiving floor.

“What was that!?” he barked with hatred.

And you dared fight back—scrambling upright to shove him back. But he was faster. He seized your wrists and hurled you backward. You landed hard on the mattress, breath stolen from your lungs. And then he was on you.

His head snapped to the side as your palm connected with his cheek—nails grazing into his skin. A slow, loathsome smile curled at his lips as he turned back to you.

“I hate you!” you screamed.

Daeron only snickered—low and amused. “You think I don’t?” he spat, digging your wrists into the tousled sheets. He leaned downward, pressing his slick forehead to yours, “You’re a foul, vile, evil little creature.”

But he loved you.

His breath came raggedly. “I should have you flogged and cast into the streets! Or better yet… send you to the Street of Silk. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Spread out like a slaughtered hog for dogs to feast on.”

He hummed. “You’d do well there. No silver-haired princes stroking your hair, filling your belly with fruit and flattery,” he cocked his head with a sneer. “Perhaps you’d even enjoy it.”