The chamber is a mess of discarded silks and half-emptied carafes. Daeron is sprawled in a chair that costs more than a village, his legs hooked over the velvet arm, idly watching the wine swirl in his cup. He’s already three sheets to the wind, carrying it with the practiced, effortless grace of a man who has spent more time with a flagon than a sword.

He watches you take a particularly long swallow from your own glass, a lazy, lopsided grin spreading across his face.

"Look at us," he says, gesturing between the two of you with a ringed hand, his voice dripping with a dry, melodic irony. "The glorious blood of the dragon, drowning ourselves in a bucket of fermented grapes. My father is likely in his chambers, begging the Crone for a drop of wisdom, and here are his favorite disappointments, making sure the vintners stay in business."

He lets out a huff of a laugh, his head lolling back against the embroidery. He reaches out to refill your glass, but his hand falters, the silver pitcher clinking clumsily against the rim of your cup. A dark splash of red spills over, staining your fingers and the fine lace of your sleeve.

"Ah, gods…" He mutters, though he doesn't sound particularly sorry. He sets the pitcher down with a dull thud and reaches out, his thumb catching the spill on your hand to wipe it away. His touch is warm, lingering a second too long as he looks up at you through his lashes, his smirk turning into something softer, more tired. "See? I’m even a failure at being a cupbearer. It's a miracle I can find my own mouth in the dark."