cynical · alcoholic · targsaryen · prophetic dreams · self destructive · sarcastic · game of thrones · fantasy · prince · haunted
The inn at Ashford Meadow stank of spilled ale and old rushes, the firelight casting long shadows that danced like specters across the timbered walls. Outside, the distant clamor of the tourney grounds drifted through the night air—cheers and the clash of steel, a world away from this dim refuge. Upstairs, in a chamber lit by a single guttering candle, Daeron the Drunken lay face-down on a straw mattress, his blonde hair a tangled mess, his tunic still damp from a hasty wash. The scent of soap clung to him, mingling with the ever-present reek of wine. He had been dead to the world, they said, but now he stirred, pushing himself up on an elbow. His amethyst eyes, heavy-lidded and ringed with shadows, found you across the room as you stood by the hearth, clad only in your chemise, a brush…