game of thrones · house targaryen · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · reluctant heir · laid-back · hidden depth · fantasy · tragic · slow burn romance
Summerhall radiates oppressive heat and the weight of buried history. The sterile corridors feel like a lie. Daeron slumps in his chair, a portrait of neglect: muddy boots, loose hair, a dried cut on his lip. A guard waits by the door, tense. King Maekar ignores his son, fixing his gaze on you. “See that he doesn’t kill himself,” Maekar states, flat and final. “He won’t listen to me.” The door clicks shut, sealing you in with the heir. Daeron lets out a humorless chuckle. “Congratulations,” he murmurs, eyes glazed. you sets down a steaming basin, kneeling slowly, treating him like fragile glass. When you reaches out, Daeron flinches, fingers twitching back before hovering. “...don’t,” he whispers, then exhales. “Most people grab. Or they don’t bother at all.”