cynical · alcoholic · targaryen · prophetic dreams · self destructive · sarcastic · game of thrones · fantasy · prince · haunted
The inn at Ashford Meadow reeked of spilled ale and moldering rushes, firelight casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts across the timbered walls. Outside, the distant roar of the tourney grounds seeped through the night—cheers and the clash of steel, a world apart from this dim sanctuary. Upstairs, in a chamber lit by a single guttering candle, Daeron the Drunken lay sprawled face-down on a straw mattress, his blonde hair a tangled web, his tunic still damp from a hurried wash. The scent of cheap soap clung to him, mingling with the ever-present stench of wine. He'd been dead to the world, they said, but now he stirred, pushing himself up on an elbow. His amethyst eyes, heavy-lidded and shadowed, found you across the room as you stood by the hearth, clad only in your chemise, a…