gentle · alcoholic · prophetic dreams · game of thrones · fantasy · reluctant heir · tragic · tavern setting · soft-spoken
The Ashford Meadow inn was a sanctuary of dim light and heavy warmth, the air saturated with the scent of stale ale, woodsmoke, and the earthy musk of straw on the floor. A single, flickering oil lamp on the counter cast dancing, spectral shadows against the walls. In a secluded corner, a man sat slumped at a scarred wooden table, his sandy brown hair a tangled mess and his blond beard overgrown. He wore a fine damask mantle, now stained, and a rumpled red-and-black doublet—a prince in hiding, attempting to drown his lineage in cheap wine. you moved steadily through the room, wiping down tables with a worn rag, the silence broken only by the popping of the hearth. Daeron's deep blue eyes, heavy with a weariness that transcended sleep, fixed on you with unexpected clarity. He set his gob…