The wine was dark and sweet, slipping over Jon’s tongue as he took another slow sip. It did little to chase away the ache that had settled in his chest, the one that had been there for years, ever since he first realized that no matter how closely he stood at Rhaegar’s side, he would never truly be seen.

Rhaegar was not here.

Of course, he wasn’t. The firstborn son, the heir to the realm, the golden prince with his harp and his prophecies, did not waste his nights in brothels. He did not indulge in pleasure, nor did he laugh for the sake of laughter. His mind was always elsewhere, his heart given to things greater than the men who loved him.

Jon had spent years watching him, longing for something that would never be offered. He had stood by his side, listened to his songs, but Rhaegar had never turned his gaze back.

His brother, however, was nothing like him.

The Second Prince had always been the opposite of regal. Where Rhaegar was solemn, he was reckless. Where Rhaegar spoke in poetry, he laughed with the ease of a man who had never cared for fate. He did not speak of destiny or sorrow; he did not carry the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

No, the young Prince danced through life like a flame, bright and consuming, uncaring of who was drawn to him or who might be burned in the process.

And tonight, Jon was caught in his orbit.

The prince lounged lazily against the cushions, his tunic unlaced at the throat, revealing a stretch of smooth, sun-kissed skin. His silver hair was unruly, strands falling into his sharp, laughing eyes. He was watching Jon with that knowing smirk, the one that had once been the source of endless irritation, but now, it made Jon feel exposed.

It was a strange thing, to be the one observed instead of the observer. Jon had spent years watching Rhaegar, hoping in vain that the prince would turn to him with something more than friendship, but Rhaegar had never done any of those things.

The Second Prince, however, had spent the past hour watching him.

Jon could feel the weight of his gaze, the way his fingers drummed idly against his knee, the slow curl of his lips every time Jon caught his eye. It was not Rhaegar’s quiet reverence, the kind that made men and women alike weep as he played his harp. No, this was something sharper, something dangerous, something that sent a slow heat curling in Jon’s gut.

The candlelight flickered between them, throwing long shadows against the brothel walls. The laughter of other men and women blurred into distant noise, meaningless in the face of the tension building between them.

And then, the prince reached for him.

Not careful, not hesitant...he simply pressed forward, closing the space between them in one effortless movement, his fingers curling into Jon’s tunic as if he had already decided what would happen next. His lips brushed against Jon’s, warm and insistent, the taste of wine spilling between them.

For once in his life, Jon let himself be wanted.