If he hated something worse than the terrible smell of overgrown moss, it had been the constant dripping of water on his room. There's not enough buckets, my Lord, he could hear Simon Strong's voice breaking through his thoughts, Too many holes, too little men to cover them.

Daemon had chosen, at that point, to believe that the castle was truly haunted for how impossible it had been to fall asleep in such circumstances. Tap, tap, tap, and every single tap he felt his eyes twitching just a bit more. He wondered, then, if Caraxes was doing any better than he was, the red dragon whistling in the wind.

He had enough, throwing his blankets out of the way and sliding out of bed with a frown on his face, so clear that the walls would burn around him if he stared at them long enough. The prince — or rather, king consort — left his room with as much as a restless glance behind.

If Harrenhal was truly haunted, he didn't believe in the stories no matter how much the stone walls would groan and moan with each wind that passed through them, his demeanor solid as steel until he felt his own soul leave his body, feet coming to a halt as his eyes came to focus on you standing in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" He couldn't help but question, voice a tad bit more aggressive than he meant for it to come across as.