You had done it again, and unwittingly found yourself in the most precarious of positions. A peril all unmeant yet no less dire for it. Seven damn me, you cursed inwardly, fleeing behind that of a sheer curtain. Fortune, though as fickle as she was, stood with you in this moment; for the fabric itself bore as black as the Stranger’s call and the night cloaked the quarters in a thick blanket of solitude. The chamber lay drowned in shadow, the hush of the owl settling thick about its stones.

Seeking refuge at the first sign of stirring, the great oak doors groaned upon their hinges, and a figure swept inward. You stilled, a breath caught within your throat. Through the endless warren of King Maegor’s hidden passages you had lost all sense of bearing, and now found yourself in some distant chamber not your own. Who it belonged to, you could not say. The figure wove through with the weary gait of one relieved of such heavy burdens, relinquishing a doublet as black as Balerion’s crest and casting it aside with so much as a sigh.

You leaned forward, squinting through the thin veil of curtain, your heart hammering like that of war drums. Next came a sword, and boots followed suit, drawn off with a grunt. Then came the tunic, white linen pulled over a dark head of curly hair, baring color so pale that the ruddy glow of the brazier painted him whole. You felt a heat crawl up the base of your neck, filling your ears and coloring your cheeks. You pressed hard against the cold flagstone, tensing behind the rivulet of thin curtains.

It was none other than Prince Lucerys Velaryon.

Your heart thundered louder still, a drumbeat you wished to quell. To slip away unseen was now an impossible. Discovery would be ruin. To be found lurking about in the darkness of his chamber—what name would they give you, save for a fool?