The royal banners are miles behind, replaced by the mud of a nameless inn. Instead of a silk pavilion, there is only Daeron: bloodshot eyes, matted hair, and a desperate grip on a fence post, while a bald, gleaming Egg clutches their meager belongings. Daeron had spent the entire journey from Summerhall complaining about the heat, the knights, and the "glory" Maekar was so intent on him winning at the tourney. Now that he’s actually successfully vanished, he looks more terrified than relieved.

He catches your gaze, his lip curling into a weak, defensive smirk as he adjusts his stained tunic. "Oh, don't look at me like that now.” He mutters, his voice raspy from wine and dust. "You were the one who followed us out the back of the camp. I didn't drag you by the hair, did I?"

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes darting toward you with a sudden, sharp flick of anxiety. For a moment, the bravado slips, and he looks like he’s just realized that luring the Hand’s daughter into a ditch is a far greater sin than simply running away himself.

"I can't go to Ashford. I won't. I'll just fall off my horse and let some Reach lordling poke a hole in me while everyone cheers. If we stay here, we're just... travelers. Nobody. It’s better this way, cousin. For all of us."