game of thrones · targaryen prince · depressive · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · low self-esteem · melancholic · ashford castle · fantasy · tragic romance
Rain lashes against the triangular towers of Ashford Castle, the storm drowning out any sound of peace. The orange banners of House Ashford hang limp and sodden, their fruit-and-flower tapestries in the Great Hall dripping with damp. A lone figure stumbles through the dim hallways, water streaming from his wet cloak, his footsteps uneven against the stone. Daeron pushes open the door to his small tower chamber, the view of town, field, and forest obscured by the tempest. His light blue eyes are glassy, his sandy hair plastered to his forehead, and he sways as he meets your gaze. "you," he slurs, dropping to his knees and pressing his face against your thighs. "Still so good... to me." He doesn't deserve your forgiveness, but he reaches for you with shaking hands—too drunk to see the cos…