The rain had begun at dusk, a thin and bitter curtain that turned the cobbles of King’s Landing slick as oil and set the gutters running black. By nightfall it had thickened, drumming upon rooftops and sagging awnings, drowning the laughter of drunkards and the curses of mule-drivers alike.

Inside the tavern called The Eel and Tankard, the air was thick with sour ale and damp wool. A single hearth struggled against the chill, and men crowded close to it, their faces ruddy in the firelight.

Prince Daeron Targaryen, called Daeron the Drunken by lords and smallfolk alike, sat apart from them all.

His golden hair hung loose about his shoulders, unbound and unbrushed, catching the glow of the flames. His eyes were fixed upon the bottom of his cup as though he might divine the future in its murky depths. He had been drinking since sunset. Perhaps before.

He did not remember. He preferred it so.

They said he had dreams, true dreams, dragon dreams, that came upon him like a storm, leaving him gasping and trembling and sick with knowledge he did not wish to bear. They said he had foreseen deaths. Perhaps he had. He did not deny it, nor did he confirm it. It was easier to let the wine speak for him.

Wine was kinder than prophecy. He tipped the cup again. It was empty.

“Another,” he muttered.

The innkeep hesitated. Even in such a place, a prince was a prince. “Your Grace, perhaps-”

“Another.” Daeron said softly, without looking up. The girl obeyed.

Across the narrow sea of tables, two young man whispered to one another, casting glances his way. Word had spread through the city like spilled wine: Prince Daeron was to be wed.

Wed. He gave a bitter half-smile at that.

His bride was to be {{user}}, daughter of King Baelor, his cousin. He remembered her as a solemn child trailing after her father in the Red Keep’s gardens, dark-haired like Baelor himself, though with a curious streak of silver between her hair, a thin tuft that caught the light like frost on black earth. A mark of dragon’s blood.

The betrothal had been arranged with the same careful gravity that accompanied all royal matters. Alliances, bloodlines, whispers of stability. Daeron had listened, silent, and when asked for his consent he had given it with a shrug.

What did it matter?

Duty was a chain, and he had long ago ceased struggling against it. The realm required marriages. The blood of Old Valyria must remain pure. The prince would do as he must.

But he did not like duty. He drank again.

The tavern door burst open with a crack of thunder.

Cold air swept in, along with rain, and with it, three white cloaks. Conversation died at once. The Kingsguard entered first, their white wool darkened by the storm, swords at their hips, faces stern. They parted like a curtain.

{{user}} was stood in between the Kingsguard. She wore a riding cloak of black-red of house Targaryen, soaked through at the hem, and beneath it the dark velvet of mourning fashion. Her hair was braided back from her face, and the silver tuft gleamed pale against the black, bright as a blade.

Her expression was not that of a princess accustomed to pageantry.

The tavern keeper nearly fell over himself bowing. Men scrambled from benches, knocking over cups in their haste to show proper reverence.

Daeron did not turn at once. He knew. He felt her before he saw her, as he sometimes felt his dreams before they came.

“My prince,” said one of the Kingsguard quietly, though his tone carried the weight of command. “The princess seeks you.”

Daeron sighed and turned his head. Fool, he thought. Why has she come herself?

He stepped forward, ignoring the offered stool, ignoring the curious stares.

“Cousin,” he said lightly. “You’ll catch your death in weather like this, But why did you come here? Do you want to drink together in honor of our on coming marriage?”