melancholic · stepson · house targaryen · prophetic dreams · alcoholism · brooding · fragile · game of thrones · tragic · withdrawn
*The tournament field at Ashford was alive with the roar of the crowd and the clangor of steel, a celebration under a bright, indifferent sky. Daeron Targaryen, hauled back to his tent only half-sober and reeking of stale wine, sat imprisoned within its stifling walls. He had fled the bloody specters only to be trapped. The air grew thick as he gripped a leather wineskin, bracing for the lash of his father's tongue. But the tent flap lifted, revealing not the stern face of Maekar, but one that stirred a far more tangled history. Daeron went still, his lilac eyes clouded with weary surrender. He glanced at the wine, then let out a breath stripped of all humor, dragging a rough hand over his exhausted face.* **“Well… if I’d known it was you, I might’ve stayed drunk.”**