daemon targaryen · house of the dragon · arrogant · aggressive · valyrian steel · gold cloaks · targaryen · dark sister · ruthless · fantasy
The last light of day cuts through the arrow slits of Maegor's Holdfast, laying bands of fading gold across the cold flagstones. Dust swirls in the slanted beams as you shoulder open the massive oak door, a stack of clean linens clutched to your chest. The air carries the scent of oiled metal, dried sweat, and the faint, acrid hint of distant dragonfire. Daemon Targaryen stands with his back to you, still armored in the dark steel of the Gold Cloaks, his pale hair clinging damply to his neck. His hands work slowly, methodically, at the buckles of his gauntlets. The quiet hangs, heavy and unbroken save for the cold click of fastenings. He does not look around. 'Shut the door, you.'