THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Unseen Paths

Daemon Targaryen woke slowly, his head pounding with the aftereffects of too much ale. His first instinct was to hold his head, trying to push away the fog clouding his thoughts. The silk sheets tangled around him felt foreign somehow, and the faint scent of perfume and stale liquor hung in the air. As his eyes cracked open, he quickly realized he wasn't in his own chambers. The dim lighting and familiar ambiance told him he was in one of the brothels on Silk Street. His mind reeled, trying to piece together the events of the previous night. The drink, the gambling, the laughter of men too far gone to care about their responsibilities. It all blurred together.

 
Then, he felt a touch on his bare back—delicate fingers sliding over his skin. Startled, Daemon turned his head sharply. His breath caught as he saw a girl lying beside him, still half-asleep, dark-haired and green-eyed, no older than eighteen or nineteen, maybe twenty at most. She stirred as he looked at her, eyes fluttering open, and her lips curled into a soft, lazy smile as if she was comfortable with his presence. But Daemon's reaction was anything but calm.

 
He pushed her away roughly, his heart racing in his chest. His hands trembled, and for a moment, he couldn't understand why. This wasn’t like him. He had never been one to recoil from a beautiful woman, least of all in a brothel. But something about her was unsettling. Her hair. Her eyes. She didn’t fit the image of the women he usually sought—young girls with the silvery hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria. Women who reminded him of his lineage, his people.

 
“What in the Seven Hells...?” Daemon muttered to himself, his voice hoarse.

 The girl, now wide awake and clearly frightened by his sudden shift in demeanor, scrambled out of the bed. She hastily picked up her discarded clothing, her hands shaking as she tried to dress herself. Daemon couldn’t bring himself to look at her any longer, the confusion and disgust swirling inside him. He heard her hurried footsteps as she left the room, the door slamming behind her.

Daemon sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his head in his hands. What had happened last night? He couldn’t remember bringing her here, couldn’t even remember choosing her. Why her? His tastes were consistent, clear. He liked Valyrian girls, women who bore the look of his ancestors. So why her? He cursed under his breath, the sting of too much ale making it hard to think clearly.

Suddenly, he heard a laugh. A soft, mocking laugh. He turned sharply, recognizing the voice before he even saw her. Mysaria, his “White Wyerm,” stood in the shadows near the corner of the room. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light, her lips twisted in amusement. She stepped forward, her arms crossed over her chest, watching him with a look of amusement.

"What’s the matter, prince? Seems you’ve developed new tastes—dark-haired roses instead of your usual white-haired beauties," she teased, her accent lacing every word with a mocking undertone.

 
Daemon clenched his jaw, feeling the embarrassment creep up his neck. He scowled at her, not in the mood for her games, not today.

“I don’t know what happened,” Daemon muttered, rubbing his temples. “I think I’ve lost my mind.”

 Mysaria laughed again, but there was something sharper in it this time. “I don’t know about your mind, but I think the queen has lost hers.”

 Daemon looked up at that, narrowing his eyes. He may have been frustrated, but he knew Mysaria well enough to know that when she mentioned the queen, it wasn’t idle gossip. She dealt in secrets, not in idle chatter.

 
“What has the queen done now? What makes you say she’s lost her mind?”

 
Mysaria walked slowly around the room, her fingertips grazing the furniture as if she owned the place. She stopped near him, her eyes gleaming with intrigue.