[m] turns out I'm not that inactive, after all.

VAEMOND

What have I become? Vaemond's head was slowly spinning, dulled by the drink, and his saliva was turning bitter in his mouth. Bloody aftertaste.

It wasn't good, it wasn't pleasant, but he couldn't bring himself to put his cup down. Four days had passed already since he last drank milk of the poppy, and his hands- his hand- had started to shake terribly. The last. He took another mouthful of the substance and lied back on his chair, breathing out in relief.

It all started when the maester that assisted him after that wretched tourney offered him a cup for relief. He wasn't sure wether to accept it or not, but his maimed limb bled what seemed like rivers of dark blood and his head was spinning and aching like the seven hells. The white, tasteless drink made the spinning pleasant, the blood loss insignificant and his missing hand forgotten. He slept, and dreamt as vividly as never before, waking up a new man, even partaking in the feast.

But then his missing hand came back to memory, and started to hurt, craving to be remembered. The maester gave him another drink, and that time the dreams became stronger, stranger, scarier. His son and daughter flying like kites, laughing in the breeze, their laughs slowly becoming pleads for help, then screams. His father riding a giant crab on the shallows off Crabtown, fighting an enormous turtle in a deadly battle. A thunderstorm burning King's Landing and the smallfolk laughing as the Dragonpit was once again destroyed. That time he swore not to drink it again, as long as he lived. But it didn't last: he drank it again after a fortnight, then again after ten days, then a week, then five days. Every time the painful twinging of his missing hand came back his first thought was how the milk made it stop, even when his stump didn't hurt that bad. The money he could let go unnoticed, he spent on milk. He talked less with his family and slept more. The first few months everything was like before. But now his eyes were red, his face puffier his hands often shaking, yet no one really noticed.

Help me... What have I...

His eyes closed before he could keep thinking, the muffled and colourful dreams of the poppy taking the place of reality.