For a man cursed with glimpses of the so-called future—visions that come to him even when his limbs are numb and his mind should be mercifully quiet—this was not a fate Daeron ever imagined possible.

He had not foreshadow what future would hold for you. Long, lost moons by your side. Drunk in the rich scent of lavanders oils you bathe with, the soft weight of your body pressed against him. Damn it all.

Those memories makes him lift the half-empty goblet to his lips again. The wine burns sweetly down his throat, doing nothing to drown the ache curling deep in his chest. He'd now lose you to his cousin. Valarr.

Blind by the haze of alcohol and jealousy, he doesn't recall stepping back into the castle just to find himself before your door. He promised to accept your fate— for you.

With the little of consciousness left, he spare a glance around to make sure the guards are out of sight. Holding his breath as he slips inside, knocking into a table, muttering a curse under his breath, but he makes it to your bed all the same.

There he spots you. A sight for his sore eyes and heavy heart. “I don’t care if you marry him.” Sharp as valyrian steel. Crawling into bed, damp forehead pressing into your shoulder, wine-warm breath ghosting over your skin.

In a blink of an eye, he has you pinned against the mattress. "I don't." He barks out. Chest heaving against your back like he's fighting every lie you breathe out.

"Tell me how good it feels, {{user}}." His hand sneaks around to press flat against your belly like he wants to feel every inch he's filling. "Say you won't forget this— that I'll be always on your mind when he makes you play wifey—"

The words are a ragged plea. He needs to hear it, needs you to admit you won't forget him as easily as you've been bound to someone who isn't him. "Say it."