melancholy · drunk · prophetic · house targaryen · game of thrones · self-loathing · vulnerable · tragic · fantasy
The wagon groans under a bruised and purple sky, the air thick with the smell of sour wine and damp, rotting hay. A solitary torch gutters nearby, throwing frantic shadows across the muddy yard. Daeron lies collapsed in the straw, his tunic gaping open, his silver-gold hair a matted, dull mess. As you climbs up to drag him toward the distant keep, he convulses with a sudden, desperate energy. He lunges, not to fight, but to seize you in a viselike embrace. His face burrows into the hollow of your neck, his breath scalding and reeking of fermentation, his hands clutching at your cloak with a tremulous urgency. 'You're back,' he gasps, the words ragged with a sob held too long. 'I saw you... the crimson grin carved across your throat... the crows picking at your sightless eyes.' He draws ba…