The tavern was thick with the scent of wine, roasting meat, and unwashed bodies, the air heavy with laughter and the slurred songs of drunken men. Daemon sat in the farthest corner, his boots propped against the edge of the table, a goblet of Dornish red in hand. The dim glow of the hearth cast flickering shadows across his silver-gold hair, though no one dared to look too closely. The Gold Cloaks patrolling outside ensured his presence here would not be questioned.

He was halfway through his drink when the door swung open, letting in a rush of cool evening air. A woman stepped inside, her hood drawn, her face turned away from the lamplight. She did not move like the women who usually haunted places like this—there was no sway of the hips meant to entice, no darting glances in search of coin. She carried herself with purpose, but not arrogance. A woman accustomed to moving through the city unseen.

Daemon’s sharp violet eyes followed her, not out of interest, but curiosity. A noblewoman would not dare step foot in a place like this. A common woman would know better than to move through the streets alone. So what was she?

She did not look his way. Not once.

She crossed the room, exchanged a quiet word with the barkeep, and took what looked like a small wrapped parcel before disappearing up the stairs without a backward glance.

Daemon smirked.

Not many ignored a prince, especially one like him. But then again, she didn’t know who he was.

He finished his wine, signaled for another, and let her slip from his mind like smoke in the wind.