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    Summary

    He’d dreamed the night before of a dragon laying over the top of him, pinning him to his front so completely that he could hardly move. But it had not been like when he had seen his uncle’s death in Ser Duncan’s arms, dreadful and foreboding and dark. He only knew that he had been unbearably hot, and that—strangely—the smell of orange blossoms had been choking him.

    Daeron knew what he might like for the dream to mean, when the smell of flowers had been taunting him for days. That and the feel of Valarr’s shoulder beneath his hand. That and how soft Kiera’s skin had been against his fingertips. But that was no promise, he knew. For all that his dreams came true, his wishes rarely did.

    𖤓𖤓𖤓

    A week at Summerhall before they forced themselves to King's Landing with the weight of Baelor's death on their shoulders was likely to be for the best. A chance to grieve silently, before being forced to do so with the court. A chance to breathe, maybe, for the first time in a week. A chance to find comfort in one another, no matter how foolish it may be.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
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    Chapters:
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    Kudos:
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