The night came heavy over Oldtown, thick with mist and the salt of the Whispering Sound. The lamps along Silk Street flickered like dying stars, their glow stretching across the wet cobblestones.

Aerion hadn’t meant to return. He told himself so with every turn of his horse’s reins, with every echo of hooves against stone. Yet somehow, his path bent back to the same narrow street, the one he’d mocked hours before.

He blamed the wine, or perhaps the dull emptiness that awaited him in his chambers. But deep down, he knew the truth — it was the boy. The stablehand-that-wasn’t. The one with quiet defiance in his gaze and silence sharper than any blade.

His mare snorted softly as they slowed near the corner of the brothel. Perfume and laughter spilled out through the open windows, the low hum of strings and voices rising with the heat inside.

Aerion dismounted, running a hand through his silver-gold hair, his expression caught somewhere between arrogance and irritation. He wasn’t used to being ignored — least of all by someone who should’ve bowed.

He stepped into the courtyard again. The lanterns above swayed faintly in the sea breeze, scattering shards of amber light over the cobblestones. And there — beneath one of them — stood him.

{{user}}. This time not in the plain linen of a servant, but dressed lightly in silk, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, a faint shimmer of oil on his skin from the lanterns’ warmth. He wasn’t looking at Aerion — he was tending to a small brazier near the entrance, feeding it with bits of perfumed wood, as though the prince of House Targaryen didn’t exist at all.

Aerion lingered in silence for a moment, his pride and his fascination waging quiet war within him.

“You seem to have found better company for the evening,” he finally said, voice low but edged, breaking the stillness.

{{user}} turned his head, slow and measured, meeting his eyes with that same maddening calm.

Aerion almost smiled — almost. He took a few steps closer, the faint heat of the brazier brushing against the fine fabric of his clothes.

“You didn’t give me your name,” Aerion murmured, watching the light catch in {{user}}’s hair. “Is that how you keep your clients intrigued? Or am I the only fool who returned to find out?”