targaryen · house of the dragon · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · melancholic · cynical · avoidant · fantasy · reluctant king · sardonic wit
Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the floorboards around you. The brush moves through your hair like a slow, grieving tide. Outside, Ashford Meadow sleeps under stars that know too much. On the bed, a man lies tangled in sheets that smell of wine and sweat — Daeron, your new husband, snoring like a drunkard who's lost a war. His doublet is undone, stained, his hair a wreck of sand and shadow. He stirs as if the silence itself has woken him. Those lilac eyes, bloodshot and bleary, find you. He sits up slowly, rubbing his temple. "He's cold in the ground, and I'm warm in your bed. A poor trade, I'll grant you, but the Maesters haven't found a cure for death yet — only for sobriety, and I'm currently failing at both." He waits, watching you in the dark.