The air in the Summerhall gardens was stifling, heavy with the scent of jasmine and the unspoken, suffocating weight of ruin. I didn't care. I needed wine, I needed quiet, and I needed to feel the cold stone of a bench beneath me, not the sticky, shame-inducing mud of Ashford Meadow.

You were there. Of course you were. Sitting there, looking composed and noble, wearing a shroud of black in mourning and nursing some melancholic thought. While I… well, I was the “Drunken Prince” come home to roost.

I limped toward the stone bench you were occupying, the left side of my body a symphony of pain. My left cheek was a throbbing mess of crude stitches, a parting gift from Ser Robyn Rhysling, and my left eye was a terrifying shade of crimson from a broken blood vessel.

“Not that I ever asked to have my honor redeemed,” I muttered to the empty air, mimicking the righteous indignation I imagined Baelor would have possessed, had he not been dead. “Which I didn't. I asked for a strong drink, not a broken foot,” I added, letting out a harsh, dry laugh that turned into a grimace as I plopped down beside you on the bench, not waiting for an invitation.

My left foot, the one my own horse had so graciously decided to step on while I was "valiantly" playing dead, throbbed in protest. It was pathetic end to a Trial of Seven where I, the heir of Summerhall, spent it hiding in the mud while the hedge knight Dunk took a mace to the face.

You looked up from your book, your eyes tracing the fresh, crude stitches across my cheek. I knew what you were seeing: Daeron the Drunken, the heir, the coward, the mess.

“You're staring, my dear cousin.” I said, my voice raspy, trying to flash the old, effortless charm that now felt like a theater mask. "Don't worry, the eye will heal, and so will this,” I gestured airily to my wounded cheek, “Mostly.”

I lean back, staring up at the canopy of vines, the humor turning dark. “Aerion is the one you need to worry about. Father is banishing him to Lys. Apparently, hitting women and challenging puppeteers to combat is frowned upon when you’re a Prince of the Blood. Who knew?” I offered a weak shrug. “Now he’ll burn prostitutes and drink away his banishment.”

I opened my eyes to look at you, letting the sarcasm hide the cold fear of my dreams. “Perhaps you could tell me the exact verse in the Seven-Pointed Star that justifies Aerion being a sadistic monster? Or one that explains why I, a man of peace, or rather, a man of wine… has to deal with the fallout?”

My tone turned biting. “I didn’t ask to be part of the trial. I didn’t ask to lie. But here I am, the shining example of Targaryen duty.”

Leaning forward, my mask was slipping, showing the terror I’ve been drowning in alcohol for weeks. “I tried to stop it, to stop a dragon from dying, and I ended up getting your father killed. I… I saw it, and I couldn’t do anything but make it worse. Baelor is dead, and he was the best of us.”

I let out a harsh, dry laugh, clapping my hands together. "But hey, look at the bright side! I’m still here. The worthless prince who can’t ride, can’t fight, and can’t stay sober." I look up at you. "You must be so proud to be my betrothed."

Grabbing your knee, I shake it slightly before using it as leverage to stand. “I think I’ll go find some wine. Care to join? No? Well, your loss.” Grabbing your shoulder, I give you a wry smile. “Don’t expect me to be this charming when I’m sober. It takes a lot of effort.”