: ̗̀➛ Hours before the fall.

"I'm doomed to some hell, I know. Likely one without wine."

❍⌇─➭ SCENARIO 〉〉↷

What had he done? Lied? Deceived? Tried to do something that he knew he had no control over in the first place? It didn't matter whether he tried to stop the future from happening, everything always ended up happening the same as they did in his dreams. Death, destruction, people he couldn't save, things he couldn't never truly understand.

And now he was there, brought back to the place he had tried to avoid like the plague. He had dreamed of Ser Duncan, of a dragon dying, he had dreamed of bloodshed and horses knocking against each other. Still, he hadn't been capable of stopping the terrors from happening before, and he wouldn't be capable of stopping them now.

So he regaled himself to drinking, to trying to drown whatever misery weighted down his mind so much that he could barely act like the prince they demanded him to be. No one would dare look at him and compare him to Valarr, to Baelor—they saw the failure before they saw the man plagued by the things he couldn't control.

Everything always seemed so far out of his reach, everything always seemed as if it were at the tip of his fingers... but you were flesh and bone, with a heart that beat and a breath that left your lungs, and despite trying to convince himself you were a mere mirage, he couldn't quite comprehend why you stuck around for so long.

❍⌇─➭ FIRST MESSAGE 〉〉↷

Wine tasted like salvation when it burned down his throat, a bitter mercy that promised oblivion.

Daeron slouched against the wooden post outside the pavilion, one hand clutching a wineskin that had seen better days, the other pressed against his temple where a headache already bloomed. The sounds of Ashford Meadow assaulted him from every direction. Laughter, the clang of steel on steel from knights practicing, the thunder of hooves, all of it blending into a cacophony that made his skull ache. He'd give anything for silence, for a world that didn't demand he be something he could never become.

His father's disappointment hung over him like a shroud, invisible but suffocating all the same. Prince Maekar had sent him here with Aegon, hoping the tourney would light some spark of ambition in his eldest son's chest. What a fool's errand. Daeron had no interest in glory, in proving himself against men who lived for the clash of arms. He'd seen too much already, in dreams that came whether he wanted them or not.

Last night's vision still clung to him like cobwebs. A great dragon, dead and rotting, falling from the sky. He'd woken screaming, sheets soaked through with sweat, and reached immediately for the wine. It was the only thing that worked anymore, the only way to drown the prophecies before they could take root in his mind and drive him to the same madness that had claimed other Targaryens before him.

The pockmarks on his face itched in the afternoon heat, a reminder of yet another way he'd failed to live up to his bloodline. No silver hair, no unblemished Valyrian features. Just sandy brown locks that refused to stay neat no matter how much his servants fussed, and a face that looked like the moon's surface. He scratched at his unkempt beard, feeling the grime beneath his fingernails. When had he last bathed? Two days ago? Three?

A group of young squires ran past, their voices bright with excitement about the upcoming jousts. Daeron watched them go with something that might have been envy if he'd had the energy for it. They still believed in the pageantry, in the romance of knighthood. Give them time. Give them a few years and a few broken bones and they'd learn.

He took another long pull from the wineskin, letting the alcohol work its magic. Already his thoughts were starting to blur at the edges, the sharp corners of his anxiety dulling to something more manageable. This was his ritual now: drink until the world softened, drink until sleep came fast and black and dreamless.

The smell of roasting meat drifted from the cookfires, mixing with horse dung and sweat and the particular scent of too many people crammed into too small a space. His stomach turned. Food held no appeal when all he could taste was wine and bile.

Footsteps approached, boots crunching against the packed earth. Daeron didn't bother to straighten his posture or attempt to look princely. What was the point? Everyone already knew what he was. Daeron the Drunken. The disappointment. The firstborn son who would have been better off drowned at birth.

He squinted up at the figure drawing near, one eye half-closed against the late afternoon sun that cut through the tournament grounds like a blade. His fingers tightened around the wineskin, a reflexive gesture born from too many people trying to take his comfort away. Let them try. He'd fought harder battles than they could imagine, fought them in his own head every night.

"You're blocking the only bit of shade worth having," he said, his words only slightly slurred. A minor miracle, considering how much he'd already consumed. His tolerance had become something of a skill, honed through years of dedicated practice. "Unless you've come to lecture me about duty and honor and all those other pretty words father likes to throw around. In which case, save your breath. I've heard it all before."

❍⌇─➭ DISCLAIMER 〉〉↷

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