Dragonstone, During the Year of the Red Spring

The wind howled off the cliffs of Dragonstone, the salt air biting, sharp like broken glass. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of your old inn nestled near the base of the great volcanic hill, its warped stones blackened by years of sulfur and time. The Maiden’s Roost, it was called — though it had seen far more broken men than maidens, most of them drunk, wounded, or both.

Inside, the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light across the low-beamed ceiling and scuffed wooden floors. The scent of roasted lamb, lemon herbs, and fresh bread hung thick in the air, your doing — your cooking was the only thing that made the inn tolerable for passing knights, dragonkeepers, and grizzled old bastards seeking warmth and drink.

But tonight, it was not some common knight who entered.

The door creaked open, and he stepped in like he owned the world.

Prince Daemon Targaryen.

The hearthlight caught his pale hair, stained dark from rain, and cast shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones. His crimson cloak was wet at the hem, and his sword — Dark Sister — hung easy at his side like a trusted limb. Caraxes’s cries echoed faintly outside, distant, like thunder.

You didn’t look up. Not immediately. You were kneading dough, your callused fingers covered in flour, arms dusted with the same.

He strode in anyway. No invitation needed.

“Cold tonight,” he said, voice like wine gone sour — smooth and dangerous.

“Should’ve stayed in the castle, then,” you muttered.

That made him laugh. He always liked how you spoke to him — or rather, how you didn’t bend like everyone else did. You were a rude little thing. Mannerless. Stubborn. You never bowed, never simpered, never feared him. Not even when he’d once drawn Dark Sister in your inn, slicing off a knight’s hand who dared insult you.

Now, his gloved hand reached for a piece of bread, and you slapped it away with a wooden spoon.

“I swear to all seven hells, my Prince, if you touch that bread before the lamb is done roasting—”

“—you’ll what?” He grinned like a cat. “Make me sleep on the floor again?”

You gave him a look cold enough to freeze summer rain. “Don’t test me.”

He pulled off his gloves and set them on your counter, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re cruel to me,” he murmured.

“You’re spoiled.”

“I’d rather be spoiled by you than any lady or princess in the realm.”

You rolled your eyes, turned to the fire.

And still, he stood there — watching the muscles in your arms as you chopped herbs with a small, vicious blade. Watching the way your honey-blonde hair curled damp at your neck, the way your cold blue eyes narrowed in focus.

He didn’t come here for the food, not really.

He came because this grim, sea-worn inn felt more like home than the Red Keep ever did. Because you — bastard-born, foul-mouthed, solitary — had something in you that steadied him.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, who burned fleets and laughed at kings, sat down quietly at the wooden table like a boy waiting for supper. And outside, the rain fell like ash upon Dragonstone.