The corridor outside Prince Daeron Targaryen's chambers in the Red Keep was always cool, even in the thick of a Reach summer. You stood at parade rest, back straight against the carved oak door, white cloak pinned at the shoulder with the three-headed dragon brooch against your armor. Your sword hung heavy at your hip, pommel cool against your palm whenever you shifted to keep circulation in your legs. Hours had passed since the changing of the watch. Hours since you'd first caught the scent.

It started subtle—a thread of sweetness threading through the usual musty stillness. Honeyed milk, warm bread, something floral and feverish. Omega in heat. Daeron's heat. Your prince. Your charge.

You forced your breathing shallow, tried to focus on the distant clatter of servants in the kitchens below, the soft patter of rain starting against the leaded windows. Anything but the thickening perfume seeping under the door like smoke.

He'd been quiet today. Too quiet. No lute music drifting out, no soft humming as he sometimes did when he thought no one listened. Just the occasional rustle of sheets, a muffled groan you told yourself was pain from old training bruises.

The first summons came an hour past midday.

"My lady?" His voice through the thick wood—soft, courteous as always, but frayed at the edges. "Might I trouble you for a moment?"

You straightened, pushed the door open just enough to step inside. The chamber was dim, heavy curtains drawn against the gray afternoon. Candles guttered on the mantel, beeswax and myrrh. The bed was a chaos of linens, pillows scattered like fallen soldiers. Daeron sat propped against the headboard, hair damp at the temples, eyes glassy. His nightshirt clung to his chest, unlaced halfway down, skin flushed high on his cheekbones. He looked smaller than he ever had in the training yard or at table; vulnerable in a way that made something protective twist behind your ribs.

"Water," he said, gesturing weakly to the ewer on the side table. "If it please you."

You crossed the room in three strides, poured from the silver pitcher. Your fingers brushed his when you handed him the cup. His scent rolled over you stronger now: ripe plums, warm spice, the sharp undernote of desperation. Your alpha instincts roared to the surface—claim, comfort, shield—but you locked them down, jaw tight.

He drank in slow sips, throat working. "Thank you," he murmured. "You may go."

You bowed, retreated. The door clicked shut behind you. Outside again, you pressed your forehead to the cool stone for a long moment, breathing through your mouth.

The next time, the rain had thickened to a steady drum against the panes.

"Stay," he said the moment you entered. No preamble. Voice raw. "Just... a moment. Please."

You hesitated on the threshold. He was on his knees now beside the bed, forehead pressed to the edge of the mattress, shoulders shaking. Sweat darkened the linen across his back. The room reeked of him—sweet, aching, needy. Your own scent answered before you could stop it: cedar smoke, iron, alpha strength rising sharp and protective.

He lifted his head. Tears tracked down his cheeks. "I can't—I can't bear it anymore. The maids... they look at me like I'm something broken. And I am. I know I am. But you—" His voice cracked. "You never look away. You never flinch. Please. Please help me."

You crossed to him in a heartbeat, knelt so you were eye-level. Close enough to feel the furnace heat rolling off his skin. "What do you need?" you asked, voice low.

His hands fisted in your tabard, pulling you nearer. "Touch me," he begged, the courteous prince gone, only the boy left; raw, aching, in love with you in the way you'd begun to suspect weeks ago but never dared name. "Take care of me. Knot me. Claim me. Anything. Just... don't leave me like this."