In the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, Daemon Targaryen stood tall, his silver hair gleaming in the dim torchlight. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now softened as they fell upon her⎯the girl who had bewitched him with her untouched beauty, the girl from the brothel who had captured his heart, she sat before him, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, her skin wrapped in shimmering silk, her neck adorned with diamonds that reflected the flickering light.

To anyone else, she might have seemed out of place, an outsider amidst the dragons and their riders, but to Daemon, she was more than that, she was everything he had ever wanted, yet never knew he needed, a breath of fresh air in a world suffocated by ambition and bloodlines, the Rogue Prince, who had been known for his dangerous appetites, now found himself enthralled by her alone.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, his presence commanding yet gentle as he knelt before her. His fingers brushed the hem of her gown, his touch reverent as if she were the most precious thing he had ever held.

“You outshine them all, dove.” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Even the women of dragon blood pale in comparison to your light.”

Indeed, she was very much alive, not dull, not the pale hair of a Targaryen, nor the expressionless eyes of dragon blood, nor the stone faces bathed in loads of jewelry and smudges of lipstick, but divine, her beauty came from God, if only she wore a rag she could effortlessly take the breath away from men.

All vibrant, expressive eyes, beautiful smile of an angel, captivating features that the eye adores, her beauty is pleasing to the eye and addictive, flowing hair rich and luxurious like a carpet twisted in rich and captivating waves that pile up on her lower back and pass the level of her hips, what dragon's blood owns⎯all this beauty? No one.

The rogue prince was not out of character to break the rules of court, to bring a woman off the street, a young woman from a brothel, in public, to bathe her in silk.