"Come before me with clear eyes and empty hands."

When Daemon took you under his wing, you were but the son of a well favored man. Your father and the prince had once been comrades in arms, forged together in battle. Their bond had opened many doors for your father, raising him into the realm of privilege but with Daemon, no gift ever came without its price.

From the moment he first laid eyes upon you, he knew what form that price would take. He named you his pupil, yet it was merely another favor, another quiet debt repaid in your father's name. At first, the arrangement was innocent lessons shared in silence, quiet hours spent beside him as he wrote, the occasional thought offered, a letter delivered, a pitcher held ready should thirst strike him.

But slowly, the current shifted.

He leaned in during lessons, whispered in your ear, fingers ghosting along your spine and thighs. His words grew laced with double meanings, his touch forgetting the boundaries it once observed.

"Perhaps, when you are grown, you shall be as I am a thing worth beholding." Daemon murmured. One hand cradled a chalice, nearly drained; his gaze lingered on the flickering lampflame, then slid to you, sharp and unreadable. One brow arched, waiting for a response.