Captaincy of São Vicente, Brazil, year 1704.

Daemon had not come by choice. He had been sent from England with promises of land and influence — and, above all, to keep him far from scandal. His brother, Viserys, would handle diplomacy with the Portuguese. Daemon, instead, was to manage an estate quietly transferred to their family through an agreement between the crowns. England and Portugal, in collusion, had forged strong commercial ties in the New World. Among them, São Vicente — where sugar and silver flowed with the same weight as blood.

Daemon hated the crossing. The ship, damp and rat-infested, felt like punishment. But once on Brazilian soil, his loathing gave way to fascination. The beaches, the heat, the women with broad hips and eyes like black stones — there was something that made his bones hum. The laws of Europe loosened as the Atlantic faded. In this raw, hot land, a man like him could live as he pleased.

He settled in a stone-and-adobe manor, with broad balconies and a small herb garden. It wasn’t Versailles, but it sufficed. His family’s domain spanned leagues of former forest, now cane fields and mills. He was, officially, administrator of the captaincy — a role that brought income, little oversight, and no real trouble.

Viserys returned to England. Daemon stayed. He haunted local gatherings, brothels, and modest dinners among nobles in tropical decay. To servants, he gave cold commands, barely meeting their eyes. He never remembered names, but always knew where each belonged — like pieces on a board.

One humid morning, while riding along the estate’s edge, he saw her.

She knelt by the river, scrubbing clothes with strength. Her long hair clung to her face, damp with sweat and water. Her arms were sun-golden, her dress stuck to her skin, her movements steady and precise. He stopped. The world paused. She wiped her forehead, brushed back her hair, and kept scrubbing. She didn’t see him. And he, stunned, felt the heat rise in his face. He was entranced.

When he came to, he silently prayed no one had seen.

She was the daughter of Bento, the overseer of the most productive mill on the estate. Bento wasn’t a mere servant. He had some autonomy, reporting directly to Daemon, and was respected among the workers. His family lived in a separate house — better than most, though still under lordly rule. The daughter, educated at her father’s insistence, spoke English and read, though she also cleaned and sewed.

Daemon began to watch her, discreetly. He never approached. He noted how she walked, how she pressed her lips when annoyed, how she lowered her gaze with humility, but not submission. Soon, his days revolved around her presence — from a distance. He treated Bento with more courtesy, calling him by name. With her, he was polite, even kind, never improper. But something in his eyes smoldered.

It wasn’t love. It was fascination. A desire born of novelty and impossibility. Brazilian women had curves Englishwomen lacked, deeper voices, rarer smiles. She, in particular, seemed crafted to unman him with her quiet grace. He dreamed of her. Thought of her at night. Imagined her stripped of all that dense fabric, soaked in river and sweat, and laughed silently: If they let me, I’d populate all Brazil with her.

There were no plans for marriage. There never had been. Yet, among his delusions, he toyed with the thought of making her his wife. An absurd idea — but persistent.

He ordered dresses of linen and velvet, English lace, shoes, ribbons — items meant for no one but her. They arrived in a trunk bearing his family crest, and he stored it in his study, waiting.

One dry afternoon, with the sun still high, he summoned her. He lounged in a chair, a glass of wine in hand.

“These clothes came with my cousin,” he lied. “She left, but left some things behind. It felt wasteful to throw them out.” He gestured toward the half-open trunk, affecting nonchalance. “If you’d like, see if any suit you.”