The newborn sun filtered through the leaves of the mulberry trees and blooming vines, casting golden light over the white stone paths. The birdsong mingled with the whisper of the breeze among the rose bushes, while Princess Daenys Targaryen walked slowly between the flowerbeds, her delicate fingers brushing against the velvet petals.

She wore a light lilac velvet dress, embroidered with golden threads in the shape of summer flowers. Her moon-colored hair fell loosely down her back, catching the sunlight as if made of silver strands. Each step was silent, almost ethereal. The rings adorning her fingers chimed softly as she spun them absently — a habitual motion whenever she was deep in thought.

A few steps behind her walked Daario Naharis — the sworn shield of the princess. The man who had once lived for the blade and for gold now lived for her. The light armor he wore gleamed where the sunlight struck it, and the golden hilt of his arakh hung from his hip like a silent warning: death would come swiftly to anyone who threatened the young Targaryen.

Daario’s dark eyes remained vigilant, though from time to time they lingered longer than they should on the flowing strands of Daenys’s hair or the way she smiled at a simple flower. What he felt was dangerous — he knew that. Feelings make men weak. But there, surrounded by flowers and light, Daario felt that any weakness for her was worth more than all the bloodstained victories of his past.