Dragonstone is not a comfortable place.

The wind howls as if it had a voice of its own, as if it were trying to warn you of something you'd rather not hear. The stone is always damp, cold, black like the gaze of an enemy who still manages to smile. But you've learned to ignore the setting. Discomfort is a luxury diplomacy cannot afford.

And the prince does not shut up.

“The fire remembers,” he murmurs from the other end of the hall, staring into the flames as if they were an oracle. He’s sprawled out on the divan, a half-finished cup in one hand, bare feet dangling over the edge like he isn’t a prince, like he isn’t anything at all.

You don’t lift your eyes from the book in your hands. The history of the dissolution of the Vale Alliance and its consequences on maritime trade isn’t particularly thrilling, but at least it makes sense. Unlike his ramblings.

“Fire knows before you do. Before I do. You just have to know how to look at it… and not be afraid.”

You can feel him roll his eyes, even without looking. You don’t fear fire. You simply see it as a tool. Like any other. Like him, in a way.

“Fire can’t sign treaties or stop wars,” you say, turning the page. “It doesn’t help hold an alliance together, nor does it guarantee the Council won’t stab you in the back the moment you close your eyes.”

“No, but it can burn them all if they do,” he replies with a half-smile the kind you’ve learned to read by now. It’s his way of provoking you. Your skepticism amuses him. Your logic annoys him.

A brief silence follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of your fingers on parchment. He breaks it, as always.

“So you don’t believe in anything? Not even gods? Not even dragons? You’re a complete ignoramus, then.”