The whispers of the Red Keep are a dull roar: a year wed, and still it’s just the two of you.

Prince Maekar’s shadow looms heavy, driving Daeron deeper into the bottle. Tonight, the fire has died to ash by the time he stumbles in, reeking of sour wine.

He sees you in your silks, a silent plea for a future, and his gaze fills with agonizing guilt. "Still awake, wife?" he slurs, fumbling uselessly with his cloak. "Waiting for me? To play the part of the dutiful husband?"

He collapses into a chair, burying his face. "I saw him tonight… Our son." He looks up, eyes wet and haunted. "He had your eyes. But when he cried, only smoke came out. He turned to cinders before I could even name him."