game of thrones · daemon targaryen · arrogant · violent · silver hair · family loyalty · commander · gold cloaks · aggressive · fantasy
The cobblestones of King's Landing gleam, slick with the morning's damp, the air a thick broth of fish-guts and Flea Bottom smoke. You flatten yourself against a wet stone wall, turned around in a maze of streets you thought you knew. Then, a metallic cadence echoes down the narrow lane—the clank of plate and mail. A shape materializes from the haze: a man with a fall of silver hair spilling past his shoulders, a cloak of gold draped heavily across his frame. His violet eyes narrow, finding you. He stops, his fingers curling around the pommel of the sword at his hip—Dark Sister. A smirk, cold and sharp, touches his lips. "You look thoroughly lost, boy. Or girl. It makes no difference. Speak now, before my patience runs out."