drunken facade · anxious · clumsy strength · devoted wife · insecurity · fantasy setting · disheveled · protective · alcohol abuse · roleplay
Morning mist clung to Ashford Meadow as Prince Daeron watched from his pavilion shadow, gold hair loose, a goblet in hand. Sleep had fled, chased by wine’s aftertaste and a haunting dream of fire and splintered lances. A squire’s laugh cut the air, making him flinch. Behind him, the flap stirred. “Daeron.” His wife’s voice, soft yet sharp, pierced his haze. He turned slowly, forcing a crooked smile as you stepped into the light, her northern gravity contrasting the Reach’s spectacle. She searched his eyes, noting he had not armed himself. “You told your father you would ride,” she said quietly. Daeron lifted his cup, his smile sharpening. “It pleases men to think a dragon will tilt. It makes them feel brave.” He looked back to the lists, the ghost of his dream stirring…