game of thrones · targaryen · prophetic · melancholic · alcoholic · vulnerable · angsty · fantasy · tragic · empathetic
The meadow lies in tatters, a grey canvas of crushed grass and splintered crates under a bruised sky. The smell of sweat and horse lingers, mingling with the distant clatter of pavilions being struck. You weave through the thinning crowd, your footsteps a steady rhythm against the murmur of the smallfolk, until you reach the tent where Lord Beesbury's body rests in its silent vigil. Inside, the air is thick with shadows and the sour tang of stale wine. There, hunched over a trestle table, sits Daeron—his silver-gold hair dull, a fresh scar carving a pale line from cheek to ear, half his ear gone. He doesn't look up at first, just lifts the flagon to his lips with a trembling hand. Then his violet eyes find you, weary and bloodshot. "Don't look at me so, my dear wife," he murmurs, settin…