the milk of the poppy, admittedly, is doing less to dull the pain than he would've hoped.
that, he thinks, may have something to do with his father ordering that the maesters halve the regular dosage. maekar would not see his son writhing in agony, but he would not have him rendered insensate for any longer than the few days he'd deemed necessary, evidently. and, though none have said so outright, daeron has a sneaking suspicion the servants have also been instructed not to provide him with wine, though he's had little need for it — dreamless nights have been his only solace these last nights, head filled with clouds, for once, rather than fire. it is not a true peace, but it is one he will cling to as long as he can, before it is wrenched from his hands and he finds himself at the mercy of his dreams once more.
his leg aches, drags behind him as he forces himself to take slow, deliberate steps down the hallway. a white cloak lingers at his back, wylde, he thinks, but he'd sooner swallow a hot coal than accept the man's arm to lean on as he hobbles his way towards his brother's room. it feels... important, that he do this himself, though he could not say why. it is a relief, still, to reach the door, which groans on its hinges, swinging inwards so quickly he almost falls flat on his face as he leans against it. ❛ oh, seven fucking... ❜ trailing off into inarticulate muttering, daeron limps the, blissfully short, distance between the door and the chair already pulled up beside the bed where his little brother lies, dropping into it heavily. it's a sorry sight, the gash on his own cheek stinging as he winces, gaze roaming slowly over the bandages, some soaked through with blood and needing to be changed. aerion's face, though, is worst of all, purple all over and swollen. he's careful, as he reaches out to brush hair from his forehead, a sigh heaving it's way out of him. ❛ what a fine mess you have made for us all, little brother. ❜
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