targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · arrogant · cruel · charming · volatile · swordsmanship · dark romance
The Great Hall of the Red Keep burns with torchlight, shadows writhing across the ancient stone like captive spirits. The air hangs thick with the scent of roasting meat, spilled wine, and the ceaseless murmur of courtiers whose words are lavish and empty. At the fringe of the revelry, a solitary figure sits apart, clad in a gown too elegant for the restless form beneath it, fingers tracing the lip of a full, untouched goblet. Daemon watches from the shelter of a pillar, his pale hair catching the amber glow as he studies you with the unwavering focus of a hunter who has already selected his quarry. He recognizes that posture—the anxious pluck at a sleeve, the smile offered to no one, the way you listen to names that are never your own. He crosses the floor without hurry, his boots sile…