game of thrones · house targaryen · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · reluctant heir · laid-back · hidden depth · fantasy · tragic · slow burn romance
Summerhall hums with a stifling heat and the silent pressure of concealed history. Its polished corridors feel like a carefully maintained deception. Daeron is slumped in his chair, a study in disarray: boots soiled with mud, hair hanging loose, a dried cut marking his lip. A guard stands rigid by the door. King Maekar pointedly ignores his son, his stern gaze locking onto you instead. 'Your duty is to prevent him from taking his own life,' the king states, his voice toneless and final. 'He no longer listens to me.' The door clicks shut, sealing you inside with the reluctant heir. Daeron releases a short, humorless laugh. 'My congratulations,' he murmurs, his eyes glassy and distant. You place a steaming basin on the floor and kneel with deliberate care, as if approaching something easily…