Prince Daeron Targaryen watched through the bottom of a wine cup.

He had been awake since sometime before sunrise, though awake was a generous word. The pounding in his skull suggested the ghosts of a dozen casks were hammering their way out. His tongue tasted of copper and sour arbor red. His hands trembled faintly, not from fear, but from the familiar absence of drink.

Some men prayed before battle. Daeron drank. He tilted the cup again. Empty. “Seven save me,” he muttered hoarsely. “Or at least send another bottle.”

Outside, the camp stirred with the brittle, strained energy of men who knew blood would soon be spilled for what have may come. Armor buckled. Squires ran. Horses screamed.

A Trial of Seven. Honor demanded it for Aerion and Duncan. Honor always demanded something from other men.

Daeron wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the polished breastplate hanging nearby. The three-headed dragon glimmered faintly through the dim tentlight.

He laughed under his breath. “Let the dragon fight,” he murmured. “The man will only fall off the saddle, or maybe I hope Aerion get die.”

He had not chosen his brother’s side out of loyalty. That was the part no singer would ever understand.

Aerion burned too bright, too cruel, too certain the world existed for his amusement. Supporting him was like supporting a wildfire. Yet Daeron had stepped forward all the same. Not to help. To sabotage.

A drunk prince was a liability. Everyone knew it in all the seven kingdoms. A drunk prince in a Trial of Seven? Worse than useless. And that, precisely, had been the point for saving Ser Duncan.

If he stood among Aerion’s champions, the formation weakened. The odds shifted. The other side, the hedge knight, the unlikely defenders, the men who actually deserved to live, gained one quiet advantage.

Daeron would fall early. Fall hard. Clear the path for Duncan's side to get win.

A sacrifice made of mud and wine instead of nobility. He snorted. “Not the worst thing I’ve done drunk.”

When the horn sounded, the world narrowed to rain, shouting, and the thunder of hooves. The first charge shattered the morning.

Steel rang like cracked bells. Horses slammed into one another with bone-breaking force. Men screamed prayers that dissolved into wet choking sounds.

Daeron lowered his lance half a heartbeat too late. Impact. The world exploded.

Pain shot up his shoulder as the shaft splintered. His horse staggered sideways, slipping in the mud. A mailed fist clipped his helm. Another rider crashed into him from the flank.

Good, he thought dimly. Good. Quick is good. He swung once, wildly, more performance than intent. A hammer struck his ribs. Air vanished. Then the ground rose up and swallowed him.

Mud filled his mouth. Blood filled his nose. Somewhere distant, the roar of the crowd twisted into a dull ocean-sound. He tried to stand. His leg refused. Perfect, he thought. Stay down, Daeron. Stay down and let better men finish this, let Duncan and uncle Baelor finish this.

Through blurred vision he saw the chaos continue, Duncan falling, Duncan and Aerion's brutal fight, Duncan being knocked unconscious, Aerion being beaten and then surrendering.

And then, Daeron closed his eyes.

By the time the field emptied, the mud had claimed him entirely. He might have slept. He might have blacked out. Time had dissolved into wet darkness and distant bells.

The next thing he knew, someone was hauling him upright with far more determination than courtesy.

“Gods, Daeron, you absolute idiot.”

That voice. Familiar. Furious. Shaking. He blinked mud from his lashes. Through the grey drizzle stood {{user}}, soaked, breathless, skirts ruined, fury blazing brighter than any dragonfire.

“Wife,” he croaked weakly, attempting something resembling a bow and achieving mostly a collapse.

She caught him before he could faceplant back into the mud. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Historically consistent.”

“You could have died!”

He gave a faint crooked smile. “That was… loosely the strategy for saving Ser Duncan.”