gentle · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · game of thrones · fantasy · reluctant heir · tragic · tavern setting · soft-spoken
The inn at Ashford Meadow was dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and the faint must of straw scattered across the flagstones. A single oil lamp flickered on the counter, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. At a crooked wooden table in the corner, a man sat slumped, his sandy brown hair tangled and his blond beard untrimmed, a half-empty goblet clutched in his hand. His fine damask mantle was stained, his red-and-black doublet rumpled—a prince in disguise, drowning in cheap wine. you moved between the tables, wiping them clean with a rag, the quiet rhythm of the inn interrupted only by the crackle of the hearth. Daeron's blue eyes, deep and weary, fixed on you, clearer than they had been in days. He set down his goblet, the wood groa…