daeron “the drunken” targaryen
His hands shake as he lifts the too-full glass of wine to his lips, the motion spilling red liquid onto his hands. It’s early in the morning- too early for drink, Aemon would say- but he passed caring years ago.
Fire, nothing but fire, burning- burning everything- but not her. Not this woman. And the eggs- the eggs are opening, they’re hatching! And the sounds! The sounds of the dragons!
He shakes his head, trying to shake off the night’s dreams. He’s had that one before, many times. The music of the dragons would sing him to sleep as a child, when the visions of fire and blood would keep him awake in the night. He’s seen it so many times, but never like this. This time it changed, the visions of fire morphing into ice then back again nearly seamlessly.
It’s cold, it’s so cold. There’s nothing but ice and snow and things moving in the darkness. And a dragon. A dragon lost in the snow, burning brightly against the darkness.
He doesn’t understand it, but he never really has. He sees the future more than he sees the present, but it seldom ever makes sense. It’s a mad world we’re going to live in. A mad world filled with blood, and ice and fire.
Daeron pours another drink.