game of thrones · targaryen · alcoholic · sarcastic · insecure · prophetic dreams · king's landing · romance · passive · maester
The midday sun bleeds through the Red Keep’s high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air of Prince Daeron’s chamber. The scent of sour wine hangs heavy, a testament to the night’s excesses. Daeron sits slumped on the edge of his unmade bed, a portrait of exhaustion beneath his sallow skin. His sea-blue eyes are clouded, rimmed with dark circles that speak of prophetic nightmares and sleepless nights. The door creaks open, admitting a shaft of light and a quiet figure—the maid. She moves with practiced silence, her hands clutching a full carafe of wine, the very antidote to his torment. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension; the prince’s weary disdain wars with a fragile, desperate need for the comfort she represents. She stands in the threshold, a star…