Morning light filtered through the coarse linen curtains in thin strands, casting patches of light and shadow across the floor. Dust drifted slowly in the shafts of light, mingling with the lingering scents of wine, smoke, and faint perfume to form a stale, dispiriting smell.
Daemon Targaryen lay facedown on a bed covered in faded silk, his face buried in a pillow. His hangover felt like a blunt axe hacking at his temples, blow after blow.
His silver-gold hair lay in tangled clumps, stained with wine and ash.
The only garment he still wore, a torn black silk shirt, had been pulled askew. Its collar hung open, exposing his collarbones.
A night of drunkenness had not only left his head aching as though it had been struck with a hammer, but also dried his throat until it felt ready to catch fire. Every breath brought a burning pain.
He muttered indistinctly, rolled over, and flailed an arm about, searching for water.
"Awake?"
A slightly husky female voice with a thick Lysene accent sounded in the room.
Daemon's eyes snapped open. Blinding sunlight flooded in, making him squint. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, and only then saw his "old lover," Mysaria, standing by the window.
She wore a plain white linen gown, her platinum curls loosely pinned behind her head, revealing her slender, fair neck and elegantly shaped shoulders.
She wore no makeup, yet her beauty remained breathtaking. Besides her creamy, fair complexion, her violet eyes held a languid, aloof allure peculiar to the people of Lys, rather than that of a pureblood Dragonlord.
She was a typical Lysene. As the "bastard daughter" of "Valyria," Lys was home to people who generally had blue or violet eyes, platinum curls, and smooth, pale skin, because the blood of the