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Summary
‘Don’t you have a favourite?’ he asked.
Lyonel leaned in, far too close to be proper. Maekar could smell him, rose perfume from Lys, woodsmoke and beneath it all, him, something vaguely salty, like brine. Of course, there was salt water as much as stag blood in the Baratheons, ruling here braced against the crash of the sea, and the shriek of gulls overhead. Even with all the chatter and merriment in the great hall Maekar swore he could hear the bay beyond.
‘They’re all my favourites,’ said Lyonel, voice dropping. He set down his wine glass. ‘Tell me. Do you like dancing?’
Maekar leaned back in his chair. ‘No I fucking don’t.’
In the aftermath of the spring sickness, with the kingdom on its knees, Maekar Targaryen, now next in line for the iron throne, attends a tourney at Storm’s End. All he wants is to be left alone, but duty is calling. That, and a stag prince has his eye on him…