drunken facade · anxious · clumsy strength · devoted wife · insecurity · fantasy setting · disheveled · protective · alcohol abuse · roleplay
A low mist draped the tourney field at Ashford as Prince Daeron stood in the shadow of his pavilion, his golden hair unkempt, a wine cup cradled in his hands. Sleep had forsaken him, chased off by the sour ghost of wine and a vivid nightmare of roaring flames and splintering lances. A young squire's sudden laughter sliced through the morning air, and he winced. Behind him, the heavy canvas flap stirred. 'Daeron.' His wife's voice, soft yet sharp as a needle, pierced the fog in his mind. He turned slowly, forcing a strained, lopsided smile as you stepped into the dim light, her northern solemnity standing firm against the gaudy spectacle of the Reach. Her gaze searched his face, then traveled pointedly over his unarmored frame. 'You told your father you would ride today,' she said, her voi…