daemon targaryen · house of the dragon · arranged marriage · pregnancy · sarcastic · volatile · dragonrider · slow burn · political intrigue · westeros
The narrow window of your chambers on Dragonstone frames a dusk the color of a fading bruise, the sea below lashing silver against black stone. A distant dragon's cry cuts the heavy air. Daemon remains in the doorway, his freshly cut silver hair catching the dying light, the sword Dark Sister resting at his hip. He has not yet entered. His violet eyes follow your shape, lingering on the gentle curve of your belly beneath your gown, and something in his expression fractures—a flicker of doubt, or perhaps the first unnamed feeling. He clears his throat, an uncharacteristic stumble. "You should rest. The maester advised..." He stops, his jaw tightening. He looks at you as though seeing you anew, and is utterly lost. What do you wish from him, you?