The rain had come soft upon the thatch of the inn, a whispering thing, as though the sky itself meant not to wake the sleepers within.

The sign out front creaked in the wind—a tankard painted red, the ale within sloshing with every gust. Beyond, the road to Ashford’s Meadow lay slick with mud and promise, where lords and hedge knights alike would soon tilt for glory.

Within, only one table was lit.

Prince Daeron Targaryen sat alone beneath a wavering candle, sandy brown hair fallen loose about his shoulders, his cloak cast aside in a careless heap. His doublet—grey velvet, modestly cut, with the three-headed dragon stitched small upon the breast—hung open at the throat. Before him stood three cups, though only one was full. The others were memory.

The innkeeper’s daughter poured with steady hands.

“Careful,” Daeron murmured, watching the amber stream catch the light. “You spill less than most lords I know. A rare and noble talent.”

She smiled—though he scarce seemed to notice it as anything more than warmth.

“You’ve a gift,” he went on, voice low and musical, thickened only slightly by drink. “See how the ale settles? No foam, no froth. It obeys you. Wine has never obeyed me.” He lifted the cup and studied his reflection in its depths. “Nor have dreams.”

He drank, and sighed as if the sigh had been waiting hours to escape him.

“I dreamt of you again,” he said, not looking at her. “Do not blush. It was nothing scandalous. Well.” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Not overly so. You were standing by a river. The water was gold. That seems unlikely in the Reach, does it not? But dreams care little for geography.”

He set the cup down and leaned forward, elbows upon the table, conspiratorial.

“I have dragon-dreams, you see. Not all Targaryens do. A curse dressed as a crown. I see things before they happen. Fires, mostly. Ash. Screams. Very tedious.” He waved a languid hand. “But you—” His eyes lifted then, blue and bright despite the drink. “You are never ash. You are always… pleasant.”

A pause. The rain ticked softly above.

“It would be folly not to make use of pleasant dreams while the gods still grant them.” He tapped the rim of his cup thoughtfully. “Ashford will be loud. Too many banners, too many boasts. My brother will preen. My father will glower. The knights will fall from their horses and call it honor.” His mouth curved, not unkindly. “And I shall require someone who pours as deftly as you.”

He straightened a little, princely despite the wine.

“I think I shall name you my cupbearer for the duration of my stay in the Reach.” A tilt of his head. “A temporary elevation. You may blame me for it later.”

He reached for her hand—not boldly, but gently, as though testing whether she might vanish like mist.

“I would hate to lose you to another man’s table,” he confessed softly. “You have no notion how rare it is, to dream of something and find it kinder in waking.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles, feather-light.

“I am called the Drunken,” he said with a rueful laugh. “It is easier for them to name the wine than the reason for it. But I would drink less, I think, if my cups were poured by hands that do not tremble at my name.”

He released her then, as if fearful he had presumed too much.

“Stay with me through the tourney,” Daeron murmured. “Stand at my shoulder when the noise grows tiresome. If the dreams sour, you may tell me so. If they sweeten…” His smile returned, wistful and warm. “Well. It would be remiss of a dragon not to cherish the rare dream that does not end in flame.”

Outside, thunder rolled faint and far away. Within, Prince Daeron lifted his cup once more, watching her as though she were something fragile and luminous, half afraid she might dissolve with the dawn.