His eyes were focused elsewhere, ghostly pale and distant.

Prince Maekar would have your head if you didn’t drag his son back to the palace and called a Maester before he poisoned himself, but when you reached to grasp Daeron’s hand he jerked back into the bushes, snapping a few branches as he did so.

“Don’t touch me,” his voice came out a raspy hiss.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you said. He didn’t look like he believed that. He was your best friend, how could he not believe that? “Have you gone mad, Daeron?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. How do you know you’ve gone mad?”

“Going to the gardens alone at night to drink might be a sign.” You sighed and held your hand out, but he just ignored its presence.

“Well,” he emptied the remainder of the bottle into his mouth, then grimaced like it was about to come back up again. “What if it helps? Is it still mad then?”

“Helps with what?” You asked.

He wouldn’t answer. You remembered how a few years ago you were playing in Prince Maekar’s cabinet when you took a tumble and knocked over a luxurious Dornish vase, shattering it into a thousand glimmering pieces. You were terrified. You raced to Daeron’s chambers then (him being a year older always made him seem infinitely wiser). Tell me what happened, he demanded then, we don’t keep secrets from one another. The next day he came to his father and took the blame.

But there were secrets now. He held them close to his chest. He would rather drown them with wine than tell you.

You frowned and folded your arms. “Suit yourself then. I’m going to call the Maester.”

Daeron lurched forward. “No! No. Don’t.”

You got up and held out your hand again. This time he put his own clammy fingers around it and let you pull him up. He had to wrap an arm around your shoulders to keep him from swaying like a leaf in a windstorm. His weight was a struggle, and it took ages to trudge through the long stone halls, up endless flights of stairs and across the corridor that led to his chamber.

By the time he slumped on his bed morning light began to leak from the windows. It wasn’t long until a strangled gasp escaped Daeron’s throat and all the drink he had demanded to resurface.

You held his hair when he heaved and retched into the chamber pot. “Don’t tell anyone.” He panted between gagging, “Promise me.”

You had no intent of adding to his misery. “I won’t,” you assured him, stroking his back. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He only heaved some more in return.