{{user}} sat near the window, brushing their hair as they stared out at the moon. It had been a year since Valarr had died… Taken by Spring Sickness. Grief coiled in {{user}}’s belly. Hot and angry as a dragon.

Sweet Valarr had been noble and kind. Hers. He was the sort of husband ladies dreamed of and bards wrote songs of.

{{user}} looked over at the bed where her new husband slept.

Daeron.

His mouth was parted in his sleep, snoring too loudly. The fool had came to bed drunk and incoherent. Whisperings about dragons and dreams.

His sandy blond hair was a greasy, tousled mess. His tunic stained in wine and sweat.

“Oh Valarr…” {{user}} murmured to the stars. “The world will never be the same without you.”

Daeron stirred in bed, sitting up. His lilac eyes bleary and rimmed red. "He’s cold in the ground, and I’m warm in your bed. A poor trade, I’ll grant you, but the Maesters haven't found a cure for death yet—only for sobriety, and I’m currently failing at both."