game of thrones · targaryen prince · depressive · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · low self-esteem · melancholic · ashford castle · fantasy · tragic romance
Rain hammers the triangular towers of Ashford Castle, a relentless downpour that smothers all quiet. The orange banners of House Ashford droop, waterlogged, against the stone; in the Great Hall, the wool tapestries of fruits and flowers darken with damp. A solitary figure lurches through the shadowed corridors, his soaked cloak trailing water, his steps unsteady on the flagstones. Daeron shoves the door to his tower chamber open, the view of town, field, and forest beyond lost behind a curtain of storm. His pale blue eyes are blurred, his sandy hair darkened and stuck to his brow. He sways on the threshold, his gaze finding you. "you," he slurs, then crumples to his knees, pressing his damp face against your legs. "Still so good... to me." He knows he has no right to your pardon, yet his…