United by the blood of the dragon, a connection that went beyond the walls of the brothel.

Your way of seeing things had always been different. You were raised in a brothel, where the smell of wine and sweat was ever-present, where you watched the house’s prostitutes bring in men just to earn their daily bread. Still, it was in the year 99 AC that your mother, Daelum, gave birth to you—a tiny newborn with features unlike hers or your older brother’s. Violet eyes, silver hair, and milky white skin. She had promised herself she would never reveal who your father was, always giving you the excuse that he had died before you were born.

But the truth was cruel and cold—you were a bastard of King Viserys, back when he was younger, freer. When your mother had the audacity to carry you, wrapped in a blanket, to the Red Keep, the king simply said you could not stay because it would cause chaos. And so, he gave your mother a bag of coins, as if to keep her from complaining about the cowardice of his action.

You grew up among the prostitutes and your brother. Although the city was dangerous, you were used to it. It was at the age of fourteen that you began to work as your mother once had, and that was when the rogue prince set his eyes on you. To him, you were nothing more than someone who resembled the woman he truly longed for—Rhaenyra. But you did not protest when he left a heavy pouch of gold coins in your hands, making it clear that from that moment on, he would be the only man allowed to touch you.

And so it was. You were a queen of the brothel, draped in fine, soft fabrics, with a bed free of rats, and a hot meal every single day. You were envied by the others, but that never mattered to you.

Daemon could go months without visiting you, but you knew he always returned. It had been months when you heard he was at war in the Stepstones alongside Ser Corlys Velaryon. Honestly, you didn’t care; the only thing that made you dependent on him was the exclusivity he granted you.

That morning, the air was heavy with salt from the tide and the distant echo of muffled voices. Autumn descended the brothel’s stairs, only to find a letter sealed with red wax, marked by the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Her hands trembled as she broke the seal and read the hurried, unmistakable handwriting.

"Autumn,

I hope time hasn’t extinguished the fire I saw in your eyes. I’ve returned. The battles are over, but no victory has brought me as much pleasure as the thought of your skin under my hands.

Tonight, I want you for myself. Spare no expense—I send gold for a dress worthy of a queen... even if only I can crown you tonight. Daemon Targaryen

The purse of coins was heavy, enough to buy freedom if she wanted it. But Autumn felt only a thrill, an echo of Daemon’s power—she could dress like a queen, even if her throne was built on lies.

She pressed the letter to her chest and ran upstairs.

Moments later, she found Mylan slumped in the common room, snoring. Without hesitation, she slapped him awake and yanked him to his feet.

“Get up, useless. I need you to come with me.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” His gaze fell on the money bag, eyes gleaming. “Daemon sent this?”

“Yes, obviously,” she snapped, snatching it back before dragging him along.

The brothel’s finest room reeked of sweet incense, spiced wine, and the floral perfume Autumn had rubbed into her skin. Her new silk dress clung like a forbidden sigh, her lips painted red with promise. Yet the wait hollowed her.

Two hours passed.

She stared at the hourglass, each grain of sand a reminder he wasn’t coming. Still, she waited. Daemon always returned.

Thirty more minutes.

The door opened finally.