The morning mist had yet to clear from the Red Keep. A wind carrying the salty tang of Blackwater Bay swept a few stray leaves into the courtyard, where they whirled in circles.
Daemon Targaryen staggered through the gates of the Red Keep.
His rumpled black silk shirt was covered in wine stains and dust, its collar hanging open to reveal a red mark beneath his collarbone where sparks had struck him. Ash clung to his trouser legs, and a thin layer of dust coated his boots. At some point, his cuff had been torn, exposing the swollen red blisters left by sparks on his arm.
His silver-gold hair was a bird's nest, with several strands of straw tangled in it from who knew where. A few charred ends clung to his forehead.
He walked slowly, every step as unsteady as if he were treading on cotton. His body swayed left, then right, as though he might fall at any moment.
His steps were wavering and uncertain, like a ship that had lost its rudder in a storm.
Occasionally, servants passed through the corridor. At the sight of him, they lowered their heads and hurried away, none daring to take a second look. News traveled faster than the wind: a fire on the Street of Silk last night, the prince trapped in the blaze, then limping back from outside this morning. These stories flowed like an underground river through the shadows of the Red Keep. Everyone heard the water, but no one dared lean over to look.
Those who knew nothing would most likely have taken him for some drunk who had spent the night drinking on the Street of Silk. Nothing about him suggested the "King of the Narrow Sea" who had once dominated the Stepstones. His awkward gait